


Who I am. Who I'll Never Be.

by Zootopon



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: All Caste (DCU), BAMF Jason Todd, Blood and Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Jason Todd is Red Ronin, Jason Wages War, Jason-Centric, Mystery, Outlaws Forever, Physical Abuse, Protective Jason Todd, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2019-10-18 05:44:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 92,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17574995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zootopon/pseuds/Zootopon
Summary: On the run from the Justice League and the Bats, Jason prepares to wage war on those he once considered family. They took something from him, he intends to take it back.





	1. War of the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, all. Before you begin I would like to point out that this isn't a convergence from RHATO 25. It certainly has hints of it and some of the characterization is based on it, but it isn't fully related.
> 
> This story will be a long one, from the general outline I have estimated 20+ chapters that I intend to complete, so this will be a long project. I would like to say beforehand that I might not be able to update regularly but please be patient because I do want to do this right. Believe it or not, unlike my other stories, this one actually has a story line that I have written out in advance and intend to follow. Any extra ideas that people would like to input would be highly welcomed.
> 
> Hope you enjoy and tell me what you think. Thank you.

_“Get your hands off him!”_

_“I was a fool to ever believe in you.”_

_“Red Him!”_

_“You’re a murderer. We gave you a home, a life, a family and this is what you do?”_

_“Jason!”_

_“You’re not my brother!”_

_“Fight back, Jason!”_

It was the same dream. One that he had to relive every night over and over and over again. Waking up in that dingy room, feeling the cold air kiss his sweat lined skin always left him shuddering. Two years and the horror and despair of that night still hasn’t released its grip on him. He hates it. He hates how Batman has this effect on him, like a cold, dominating presence in his soul able to render him stone cold with a whisper.

He feels it, every night, the feeling of his blood trickling down his face, he feels the way his bones creaked and groaned right before it snapped, he flinches at the memory of Bru-Batman’s fists swinging back and forth into his skull, each hit greater than the last, coming back for a vengeance.

He hears voices echo in his head of that night. Artemis screaming bloody murder, desperation in her voice, snapping at the figure that pinned her down as she watched him be broken blow after blow. Bizarro…he hated how hurt Biz sounded. He never wanted to see his best friend crying like that again, tears in his eyes as his voice was overshadowed by the flutter of capes against the night sky.

But it wasn’t the phantom pains that struck at him, nor the ache of loneliness the dawned on him every morning when he woke up. It was the betrayal, the heartache, the cold, inflicting finality in Batman’s voice as each blow struck him at his core, digging deeper and deeper down.

The man that was his mentor, the man he once considered as the closest thing he had to a father…the bastard had gone for the bone.

_Batman’s greatest failure._

Jason sneered away the lingering thoughts in his head, feeling the dark, twisted swirl of the pit scrapping its claws alongside the walls of his mind, just waiting for the chance to be unleashed.

Not now, not when he was so close. It had always been a hurdle for him. To let himself be overcome by emotion, to let his demons control him, and for what? His best friends casted away in prison to rot? To be ridiculed and reduced to this… _thing_ for Batman’s elevated sense of superiority?

No more.

He learns from his mistakes, he adapts and he forces himself to be something better, something greater than the limits he placed on himself.

Shaking his head in frustration, forcing his limbs to work, he throws his legs over the side of the bed and stands up, letting the glow of the morning sun hit his body. The autumn glow kisses him warmly, waking him up and showing him a new day.

Slipping into his track pants, he opens the doorway into the living room and breathes in the air. The same air he had breathed for almost a year; stale, nervous, eerie. Alfred would probably reprimand him for not airing out his house, for not having scented candles or change his odourless cleaning products. But Alfred isn’t here. He’s _there_ with _them_. Jason ignores those old thoughts. It’s better this way. The stale air keeps his alertness on high, his paranoia on full throttle and his vigilance on overdrive.

At any moment, one of those so-called ‘heroes’ could bust down his door and drag him back. He’s put his guard down before, back in Nepal, he’s never doing that again. The burn scar that hung an inch below his right floating rib still stings whenever it rains.

Thanks, Superman.

Sighing, he does his daily bug check, sifting through the kitchen cabinets, mentally checking if anything had been moved a millimetre from its designated spot. He moves the fridge away from the wall, examining the circuitry behind and quickly performing a random toxin check of his food.

After the same tedious hour long routine, he nods in satisfaction and relief, letting the little warmth of safety embrace him. It’s nice, almost euphoric in a way, how the buzz of relief sends him flying to cloud nine. But as quickly as it came, it disappeared immediately, replaced with paranoia.

Jason cursed himself. He was slipping. No matter how much he schedules his day nor how much he sticks to routine, there were always moments like this, driving a wedge between him and his objectives. He can’t fall back to who he once was, not now, not when he was about to wage war.

His team needed him to be strong.

Rubbing his eyes awake, Jason moves over to the loveseat by the west wall and gently moves it out of the way, making sure the timber legs wouldn’t scratch against the wooden floors. Its borderline insane how much he looks after his safe house, making sure it doesn’t look lived-in and vacant in case anyone ‘pops by’.

Underneath the loveseat is a loose piece of flooring which is revealed to be covering a digital keypad. To the naked eye, it would look like a simple numerical password. To Jason, it was a bomb.

One try, that was all that was allowed. Any deviation from the code, any failures to input the password in incorrectly or not completing the password verification within a 20 second interval, the keypad will send a wireless signal giving his stock arms of explosives, placed strategically at the four corners of the house, the authorisation to explode.

And to add the paranoia cherry on top of the already stress inducing sundae that is his failsafe is the rotating password locks he installed. Each hour the password changes to a completely different 16 number long sequence that he had memorised beforehand and burned any physical copy of.

24 hours. 24 codes.

5:04am, he checks.  After the thrum of verification, he descends down the cold, steel rungs to the darkness below. Unlike the stale air above, the underground bunker is pristine clean with a circular air-flow system that is pushed out to the open field outside.

Letting the lights flicker on, his computer chimes to life, but nothing of concern grabs his attention so he turns to his original objective. On the far wall, lined with weapons and weights is the training area. His alma mater of pain and desperation. So many nights, so many mornings where he would work himself to the bone, pushing far beyond his limits. It wasn’t uncommon for him to pass out from sheer exhaustion, only to wake up and repeat it all over again.

It was an obsession now. To be stronger, faster, better, deadlier. To become a greater force than he once was.

To be more than the Red Hood.

They took his team from him. Through blood, brimstone and fire he’ll get them back.

Dropping down onto the training mats, he starts off his morning just like every other morning. Reaching all the way over his feet, his hands grasp onto the bottom of his heels as he feels his stomach rest on his legs. It still astounds him how the human body is so adaptable to change.

Muscle upon muscle, yet his body twists and turns with grace and elegance. Day in, day out he had pushed himself, in speed, reflexes, strength, flexibility and it showed. His skin showed the contours of his muscle fibres, his veins protruded menacingly and his body, marred with scars, moved with a deadly grace.

A small part of him, a deadly hubris wanted him to go back to Gotham, kick down the Wayne Manor doors and drag Bruce out by his hair. He had come so far in the last couple of years, had grown so much, but deep down, he knew what a mistake that was.

Jason had always known his negligence would one day become his short fall. So hell bent on revenge the first time around, he killed his teachers before he completed his training and skipped out on the All Caste when his drive for vengeance became too much.

So focused, so driven on revenge that he only completed half of his training. He wasn’t going to let his pride and anger take over again. He’ll stay out of sight, for as long as it’ll take, until he is ready. Until he knows, with full confidence, that he could take on the Justice League and win.

He hopes his team would understand.

 

~

 

 _“Jacobo!”_ Exclaimed the old Italian Nonna. _“How are you?”_ She asked in Italian, as she rushed towards him and pulled him into a tight embrace. Far tighter than those old, wrinkled arms should be able to muster.

“ _Eccellente, Nonna Teressa. How are you? How are the kids?”_ He exclaimed with the same enthusiasm, returning the hug, careful not to break those old bones.

“ _Ba_.” She waved the question away _. “Same old. Same old. Another day closer to death.”_ She joked.

Jason winced.

It always felt weird whenever she did it, so carefree about life, but so vibrant and full of it that it baffles him how she could casually say it. Then again, the Nonna’s of Italy have lived their life to the fullest, through hardship and joy.

Especially in Matera, once known as the Disgrace of Italy.

Poverty was the norm in the 50’s and had reached an all-time low that citizens had to live in caves carved out of the hillside to live, his bunker used to be such a cave. Now a hub of tourism, backpackers galore transverse to see the signs of old, marvelling at the history yet still enjoying the pristine beaches it had to offer…everyone except Jason that is.

It was convenient, out of sight and out of mind, with the access to the tunnels for quick escapes to either the mountainside to the north or the sea to the south. Blending in was easy enough. Spout some nonsense of going on a spiritual journey and how Matera really resonated with his soul and the town’s people ate that shit up quick.

Putting on his charming smile, he responded. _“Assurdo! Then who would make your world famous Acqua Pazza?”_ He complemented, because it was true, her Acqua Pazza was the best he had ever tasted, better than Alfred’s if he was being honest.

Although he would never tell the old butler that.

 _“Grazie, Jacobo. That's why I like you. You appreciate my food.”_ She graced him with a heartful kiss to the forehead, although he had to bend his knees down for her to reach.

 _“The heathens. Food is an art that must be appreciated.”_ He exclaimed; the sound of her mother tongue effortlessly flowed out as he put a hand over his heart to emphasise the point.

The old Nonna, patted his cheek fondly, giving him a small smile. _“If you like my food so much, why not come over for dinner again?”_ She asked.

Jason almost chuckled at the request.

It had only been a year and Nonna Teresa had already adopted him into her home. Another child in her already massive family of children and grandchildren. _“I’m sorry, Nonna Teresa. Any other day and I would be delighted to visit.”_ He explained softly.

_“My father is sick and I expect a call very soon.”_

_“Oh mio.”_ She gasps, her eyes widening. _“Of course, of course. Family is everything.”_ Jason felt a tinge of regret and pain from her words. Memories of his blood littered across a rooftop with his so-called ‘family’ raining down blows on him.

 _“Sì. Family is everything.”_ He whispered softly, letting go of her hand.

Their goodbyes were as quick as always. Both in a hurry to buy produce from the local market for the day’s feed, but her old wise words never left him.

Family…Once upon a time they were, but that was a lifetime ago. A lifetime that didn’t involve a clown.

He slowly made his way back to his house, casting his charming smile for any _Bella Donna_ that crossed his path. They all swooned at him, whether from the smile or his chiselled jaw or the fact that his shirt was so tight they could almost see his abs, he didn’t know, but at the very least it kept up his image.

Jason had made a name for himself in Matera. A rooftop here, a fence gate there and all of the sudden he was the handsome young handyman the town could call upon to fix up any odd jobs they needed doing. But he was also quiet and kept to himself, rarely leaving his home due to ‘work’. The town respected his wishes and left him to his devices.

Arriving to his front door, he quickly inserted his key and opened the door, making sure his right foot pressed on the stone tile underneath, triggering the secondary lock to disengage the failsafe bomb. Two seconds means he is alone. Any longer means it is a guest and it will stand by to receive further instructions.

He knows its fucked up how much explosives he has rigged to the house, he knows that he should be concerned that he sleeps in such conditions, but against the League, he couldn’t be lax about it.

Putting his groceries in the fridge, he does his second bug check for the day, flipping over cushions, and sifting through books. Once again, just like every other day for the last years, thankfully there was nothing. Breathing a sigh of relief he goes down to the bunker once again.

Mornings he always reserved for training, afternoons and nights were for research. He might not be a Bat or a Wayne anymore, but it certainly doesn’t mean he has forgotten Bruce’s teachings. 90% of the mission revolves around the planning.

The who, what, when, where and why’s.

The execution was a measly 10%, a percentage that relied heavily on the other ninety.

For the most part, researching the Waynes were easy enough. Simple online searches always produced that day’s latest gossip and for Gotham royalty, it meant they were easy to track. Bruce, as always, didn’t need much work to figure out. For a man that thrives on secrecy, he likes to stick to a pattern. Work always started at 9 o’clock on the dot with barely any chance for deviation. Lunch at 12:30 and finished at 7, at the very latest, giving him 3 hours to prepare for the night’s patrol.

Simple.

Dick was the exact opposite. A free spirit, spotted flitting between New York and Gotham. Luckily for Jason, the ass had greater exposure than Bruce, no doubt to his actual ass. Sooner or later, Dick will be the one to inherit Bruce’s uncrowned title of ‘The Prince of Gotham’.

Scores of tabloids and news articles had him sighted with Barbara, and from the looks of it they seemed to be rekindling their relationship. Jason almost scowled at the image of the two kissing.

Rage an jealousy wrapped around him, crushing his lungs with a terrifying grip. Why? Why him? Why does Dick ‘Golden Boy’ Grayson always get what he wanted, but Jason couldn’t even get what he _needed_?

Daddy’s perfect little bitch, the first to side with Bruce that night. All that talk about family and brotherhood, but when push comes to shove, when Jason didn’t even fight back, Dick didn’t come at him as a brother, he came as Nightwing.

It would be so easy. A bullet was all that was needed. Dick. Dead. Not so golden anymore.

God, he wanted to do it so much. Dick wasn’t a brother, he never was. Just a bastard that guilt tripped his way into Jason’s life, spouting bullshit about how they were family and how he’ll always be there for him _after_ Jason had died.

Where the fuck was all that brotherly love when the bitch kept kicking his ribs into his lungs?

 _Fuck,_ the bastard had even praised their ‘bond’ to his teammates, about how close they were, how he loved his ‘Littlewing’ so much and how devastated he was when Jason was _gone._ And like the naïve Robin that Jason was, believed those words, like a lifeline for companionship and comfort, until it was too late feeling the noose tighten around his throat.

Jason resisted the bubbling urge to deep dive Dick’s account. A digital worm here, a Trojan virus there and he would be in. His tech, his gear, his aliases, his accounts all for Jason to manipulate and use.

His fingers twitched on the keyboard but in one last bout of desperation, Jason forced his hands underneath his legs pinning them down, waiting for the pit to pass by, waiting for his body to remember how to breathe.

It would be idiotic. A deadly hubris. He couldn’t risk sending an alert to the Batcomputer about an unauthorised access. If he was in his Monaco safehouse he might. His tech was much more advanced there with the added bonus of a dense population to blend into in case he needed to tactically retreat.

But not now. Too risky. Too stupid.

Feeling his trembles easing down, he let go of his hands feeling the blood pump back through his fingers, the tingling sensation sending shivers up his arms. Onto the keyboard again, he moved his focus to the youngest of the Waynes. The current Robin.

Damian was simple enough. Somewhere, deep inside him, some leftover piece of brotherly attachment nipped at his heart in regret. The kid was now 15, clearly hitting a growth spurt and would no doubt catch up to Bruce soon. Hell, he was beginning to look like Bruce every day with only the tinge of green in his eyes to resemble his mother.

Jason might not like the Waynes, he might not want anything to do with them anymore, but it didn’t wash away the heartache of not being able to watch the kid grow up.

Sooner or later, he’ll have to give up the Robin mantle and give it to the next poor soul that Bruce drags in. Jason wonders who the kid will become. Would he follow in his father’s footsteps as the next Batman? Or would he go a different route from what he originally planned? Dick would no doubt be thrilled if the brat came to him to be the next Nightwing. It wouldn’t even surprise Jason if Golden Boy already has a suit in store for just the occasion.

Jason sighed away his regrets. It was useless and behind him now. Another life, another Jason, maybe he would have been a great brother to Damian. One that the kid could come to whenever Dick wasn’t around and Bruce became too much.

They could chat in Arabic, the brat tucked by his side, as he told him about grand adventures Talia took him on.

“Not anymore.” Jason sadly muses.

Flicking the screen to the last of his brot…targets. Out of the three Wayne brothers, Tim had become an anomaly to Jason.

On the surface, he had graduated from college and was helping Bruce run WE, but underneath…Tim looked _distant_. It didn’t need a detective to see the space between the Waynes. He was either spotted at Wayne Enterprise or at San Francisco with his friends.

It was concerning how obvious the tension was. The kid kept up pretences, showing up to work, smiling in front of the camera with Bruce by his side and having quick appearances at the occasional circle jerk galas that Bruce holds every so often. But apart from that… _nothing._

There wasn’t even snapshots of him and Alfred!

It seemed like unless there was an emergency that needed Red Robin to interact with the Bats, the only people Tim hung out with was Stephanie and Cassandra.

Jason wasn’t a fool. This distance Tim had didn’t appear out of nowhere.

Tim was cool and collected, mission before emotions kind of guy. He was worse than Bruce in that regard. And for Timmy to drift apart meant something big. Something wrong. Something irreparable.

The earliest signs dated all the way back to…

…two years ago. _Fuck._

All the way back to the day Jason was being beaten into a coma.

Out of all the Bats, only Red Robin tried to do his job and detect, voicing his concerns and trying to appease his need to know answers. But the others didn’t listen. They kept wailing onto Jason and Tim couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

Jason smiled sadly at the fact. The kid deserved more…so much more than Jason could possibly offer and yet Tim still loves him. After all these years, he still believes in Jason and he stopped being a family with the others to prove it.

Jason didn’t deserve it, he didn’t deserve a brother like Tim.

Dammit, he was about to cry.

Wiping his eyes furiously, he quickly shot out of his chair, not being able to stare at the screen anymore.

He needed to stay strong. He couldn’t break now, not when he was so close. Not when his team needed him. When this is all over, when the war is finished, he’ll talk to Tim about it…but not now. He’s not going to let his emotions compromise the mission.

He didn’t like to think about it too much. Over the years he had been more and more reminiscent and wistful about life’s ‘what-ifs’. What if he had never found the Batmobile? Would he had died in those dirty streets? Or maybe, just maybe, he could have been one of those lucky few that made it out of the ‘inside’. And what about his death? What would his life have become if he never went to Ethiopia? Would he had graduated school? Made friends? Would Bruce still love him?

It’s during moments like these that Jason feels the ache of knowing every point in his life was a turn in a much darker direction. There were no moments of peace or tranquillity or serenity.

It was depressing and downright cruel that the safest and brightest moments of his life consisted of a dead-beat dad and a drug addict mom. He shuddered at the existential dread filling his bowels. His life, his being, his purpose was just blood. Some of it was his own and some of it wasn’t.

Standing in front of his wall plan, he felt empty, lost even, with only his mission to drive him on. He should be in college, probably on his second degree, maybe even a Masters but instead, he’s staging a war against Batman and his Justice League buddies.

Why was this his life? Why didn’t he just stay de –

 _No._ Shaking his head thoughts away. His team…no, his _family_ needed him. Such thoughts were roadblocks that he had no time for. Not now at least.

He knows of it doesn’t let his thoughts go, it will eat away at him, snarling and snapping its teeth, tearing down his walls and destroying his mind. But he continue onwards, knowing full well it could destroy him.

Jason is a survivor. He’ll keep surviving until the mission finished. Whatever happens from then on is for fate to decide.

Batman, the Bats, the Justice League, they made a mistake with him that night. They should have killed him when they had the chance. Because right here, right now, he still breathes, he’s still alive which means he’s still in the game.

They took Bizarro and Artemis from him. They took away his team, his family, his identity.

That night they thought they were hunting down a monster.

Instead they ended up hurting a broken man. A poor, decrepit, empty husk of a human being, and they didn’t care. They wanted a monster… _no,_ they _needed_ a monster. A beast that didn’t deserve kindness or fairness. An animal they wouldn’t care about. An insect they could crush.

Through blood and tears, they created a monster.

And it was coming for them.


	2. Failed Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the other side of the world.

Galas sucked. As simple as that.

Nothing good came from galas. It was just another function for rich aristocrats to come and scratch each other’s backs. A who’s who of brown nose executives and Old Money families that come and show Gotham how ‘charitable’ they are.

Bruce keeps himself in check, keeps the darkness at bay as he smiled at every champagne holding playboy that comes his way with the same broken record of conversation topics. What happened to intellectual conversations? With actual, meaningful topics?

Needless to say, Bruce was bored.

_Bored._

An Arkham breakup, an alien invasion, hell, he’d even welcome another one of Jordan’s asinine pranks, if it meant getting him out of this special hell he’s in. Alfred would no doubt give him a stern talking to, but Bruce, at this point, couldn’t give a damn.

He shuffles aimlessly around the Manor’s ballroom, saying hello to families of old money and ego-centric loudmouths of new money.

And the worst part, the thing that makes him want to snap, to scream and yell and curse these self-inflated fat cats is they’re at a charity gala and they’re doing absolutely _nothing_. They preach their song, the dance to their tune, but deep down, in a sick and twist act, they abuse the true meaning of this gathering.

The money they give, the money that boosts their image is chump change, barely even a percentage of their net worth, but still enough to get a tax write-off for. It’s infuriating and mind-numbing how _this_ is the people that run this city. Hundreds and thousands of broken people, living on scraps of humanity, and these socialites are _here_ , drinking champagne, smiling to cameras and basking in Bruce Wayne’s presence.

They weren’t here to help others, they were here to help themselves.

And something in Bruce churns in disgust because his house, his _home_ , is like a line separating the rich and the poor. On one side of the iron work fences is lush green grass, with dazzling lights and sports cars, whilst on the other…pain. Just pain.

A voice gains his attention, standing in the middle of the room, with her silver hair in a neat bobs, is Elaine Peterson addressing the audience and Bruce lets a small smile loose because even when everything is broken, when everything is faithless and forgotten, there are still some people the strive to do good, that strive to help.

They strive to be better.

Bruce, if he was being honest, doesn’t like Elaine and the Petersons much. Family money, family reputation, family _everything_. He knows it’s hypocritical, he knows the resemblance he has with the Petersons, but when he flaunts his wealth, it’s through an act, they do not. Frankly, they were more friends of his father than friends of him and he had simply accepted the request because he trusted his father’s judgement in companions.

But it was Elaine and her partners that came to him and requested this gala.

That had to count for something, right?

Crime Alley has always been a sore spot for Gotham, and that’s saying something. It was the personification of the broken in a city of the rich. Old, decrepit buildings often used by squatters who wish to save themselves from Gotham’s never-ending rain. Abandoned warehouses now hubs and gathering points for gangs and underground deals. Alleys where children were discarded, only to be picked up and _used_ in the most fiendish of ways.

It was the place to go, when all hope was lost.

And those that were born in it, learnt that hope was a pipe dream.

Just like Ja…

It was never supposed to be like this, it was never supposed to be such a cesspit of dirt and pain. Park Row was a development dream, a haven, a vision of what Gotham _should_ be. An entire city sector, filled with greenery, with the best university Gotham, nay _America_ had to offer.

Now…through gangs and broken faith, it became what is now known as Crime Alley.

Bruce watched as Elaine spoke with gusto as enamoured eyes watched on, slowly being inspired to be something more.

She’s surrounded by her partners, the same people that came to him and showed their eagerness. He spots Dr Matthew Jamieson, Mrs Gabrielle Porter, Mr Emerson Davies and a row of other high class members of society nodding along.

He travels his eyes across the group until it sets on one, at the far end of the group. He was young, far younger that his companions but still held himself in high regard. Blonde, built, with a charming smile.

Bruce didn’t know this young man’s name, but figured it wasn’t important. If galas had taught him anything, the blonde will no doubt make his way towards him later in the night under the guise of building a friendship.

Bruce had an inkling of why he was here. Just like everyone else, he was just another greedy corporate executive wanting to get Bruce Wayne as his contacts.

Good for business and all that.

“Bruce.” A gruff voice somehow manages to sneak up on him. Turning around, he is met with the silver moustache of one James Gordon.

“Commissioner.” He greets cheerily. “It’s great to see you again.”

“Likewise.” The man replies, shaking the others hand. Firm and strong, a handshake of a man that has seen what Gotham truly is. “JT Restoration Project…” He murmurs. “After Jason Todd, I’m assuming?”

Bruce almost twitches at the name, to him it was a deathly sound of damnation, but he hid his flinch well, keeping up appearances. “Yes.” He smiles wistfully. “Before he…” He falters a bit, something Jim clearly heard. “He would always guilt trip me with my money about how ‘entitled’ I was and ‘how good’ I had it.” Chuckling a bit, at an old, fabled memory. “It got so bad, I somehow ended up tipping three hundred dollars for a cup of coffee. A cup, Jim! One lousy cappuccino and it cost me three hundred and four dollars and 50 cents.”

Jim chuckled fondly at the story. “Yeah, he was a good kid.”

Bruce’s hand clenches, remembering the bodies that ‘good kid’ had created. “Yes, he _was_.” He strains out.

Gordon raises an eyebrow at how Bruce emphasised that last part, but ignored it for a grieving father. He couldn’t imagine the pain of losing one of his kids. God only knows what he would do if Joker aimed higher that night all those years ago.

“Seems like he was the only one that actually cared about Crime Alley.” Jim murmurs and Bruce feels a tenseness in his chest.

Bruce doesn’t like the pointed comment, but he can’t deny it either. Gordon didn’t make his way to be Commissioner without doing actual detective work.

An inkling, a tiny part of him wonders if Gordon _knows_. If he knows about his night work, about Dick and Barbara. This wasn’t the first time such thoughts occurred, and Bruce feels out of place wondering how far back the commissioner could have known.

The jab at Bruce hits him harder than he would like it to. This gala, this charity, this event, was the only way Bruce could help Crime Alley.

After the events of that night, Crime Alley revolted.

Three days.

Three days of riots. Three nights where the arrest rate of Gotham spiked to an all-time high. Precincts, government buildings, even the Batmobile were targeted.

Somehow they had heard about what happened to the Red Hood and Bruce, for the love of god, couldn’t understand why they were defending that animal.

It infuriated him, how loyal these people were to the Hood, and in retaliation they stopped believing in Batman.

Somehow, the broken, the beaten, the poor rose and stood their ground against the heroes. They chased Batman out whenever he was on a case, they threw trash at Superman and snarled at Wonder Woman.

A broken city, following a false god.

A ‘lawless’ area, unprotected by the police and capes.

Their message was loud, daring and downright irritating. Crime Alley was the home of the Red Hood. Forever and always.

Everyone thought that this would all die down, that the beggars and prostitutes were all bark and no bite.

They were wrong. So, _so_ wrong.

A new Red Hood gang emerges. One that still fights but protects Crime Alley in place of their fallen hero. They walked girls home at night, provide cardboard to the homeless and cared for the sick.

Were they being controlled by the Hood?

Did Hood created this new group?

Why? How? When?

These questions popped into Bruce’s head every day for the past two years and it frustrated him that he got no closer to the truth. All of them, all of the gang members that he had managed to catch and interrogate say the same thing.

_Go fuck yourself. We ain’t selling out our bro._

Brother? The Red Hood was like family to them? The hell did that mean?

They were so loyal, but worst, they were unafraid.

They weren’t afraid of him. Of the Batman. The illusions, the reputations, the rumours, the beatings. They weren’t afraid of any of it.

What was Batman without fear?

He must have been daydreaming for quite some time, as Commissioner Gordon was nowhere in sight. Bruce cursed himself for being so negligent and rude. Sighing in frustration, he rubbed his eyes awake, hoping the night would end.

“You look like you need some coffee.” A cool, calm voice spoke up and through beating eyes, Bruce notices a bed of hair just below his eyes.

Bruce’s head snapped up straight. “Tim?”

His boy eyes him cautiously. “Yeah, it’s me. Who else would it be?” A hint of irritation in his voice.

Something in Bruce clenches, seeing the apprehension of his _own_ son pointed at him. “No, no.” He stammers out. “I just didn’t expect you to be here.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” The boy asks with a raised eyebrow. “As the VP, it’s my duty to attend a Wayne gala.”

Bruce wants to cry out, to tell his young, sweet, wonderful boy that he’s more than just a VP. He could have come as Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne’s son. But he holds his silence, dread creeping into his body.

Tim rarely speaks to him anymore. The only times he hears his son’s voice is at corporate meetings or on emergency calls in the cave. Both times, his tone is cold, collected but distant.

Bruce looks at his son. He sees him, _actually_ sees him for the first time in a while and a heaviness hits his heart. Tim was still growing. Maybe an inch or two taller than last time, and at times like these, Bruce feels the weight of his decisions crush him in spades.

“Good.” He answers slowly. “That’s good.”

A silence follows out and Bruce twitches at the effect Tim’s presence has on him. He waits, hoping for inspiration to come to mind, waits for Tim to speak first, too afraid to mess this up.

But something in him breaks. It’s the closest interaction to an actual conversation with his son in months. “Why don’t you come over for dinner?” His voice flat, but his heart aches. “Alfred misses you.” Bruce doesn’t miss the twitch in Tim’s eyes the moment he mentions Alfred. It’s a cheap shot, he knows, but at this point he’ll take anything he can get. “We all do.” He finishes, hoping the message comes across.

But, in a fleeting moment, the shock wears out and their back to Bruce Wayne and Tim Drake. Family in name, strangers in life. “Sorry, Bruce. I have work to do.” His son replies monotonously, steering the conversation away, cutting it off early.

Just like Jason.

Something in Bruce groans, seeing how much Jason has influenced the boy. There were hints, changes that he noticed when Jason disappeared. Tim had become…tense, strained even. He works longer, talks less, rarely ever at the Manor, and even if he was it was only for a mission.

A soldier in every sense, a son in none.

“Tim…” He starts slowly, wanting, yearning to have the same relationship with the boy he once had.

“No, Bruce.” Tim’s voice is final and Bruce feels a tremble reach his gut. “Not now.”

“Then when?” He questions. Months and months he had pushed and Tim always managed to push back harder. “When can we just talk? Like a family again?”

“Like I said.” The boy shrugs. “I have work to do.”

Finally connecting the dots, Bruce’s brow creases in annoyance. “I am already investigating the whereabouts of Hood. You don’t need to concern yourself.” His voice is rough, irritation setting in.

A raised eyebrow was his answer. “Sure…Cause you always know best.”

He straightened himself stiffly, inhaling deeply. “I do not appreciate sarcasm, Timothy.” A rumble escaped his lips before he could stop it.

“Let’s not be hasty, Bruce.” Tim’s tone was deceptively light, but his eyes said otherwise. “This is a party, and you are not in uniform. Can’t have you going around scaring people and more importantly, their money away.” Tim spoke easily, casually fixing the bowtie around Bruce’s neck, playing the part of a doting son.

A bubble of hurt hit Bruce’s core. It was an act, just like every other gala or WE meeting, Tim’s light-hearted nature and his cheery grin he showed the public was just another disguise he had to wear. Another face he had mastered.

And it pained him, with a destructive force of rejection, knowing that a small part of that disguise was pointing at him.

His son, his boy, his everything was so close in every sense, but so far away with what truly mattered.

“Tim…” His throat scratched from irritation and longing. “We have discussed this.”

A fire burst in the boy’s eyes, but as quickly as it came, it disappeared behind a veil of professionalism. “No, we did not discuss this.” Tim’s voice was gravelly, strained even, his deceptive smile breaking slightly. “We didn’t discuss anything. You _ordered_ my silence. There is a difference, Bruce.”

A twist in his gut grew in spades. Domineering and ghastly in nature and Bruce relished in it. Without a second thought, he stepped closer, towering over the boy forcing him to look up. A stance, a threat, an act of punishment he used on criminals, now pointed at Tim. “He tried to blow us up.”

“With him in the car with you?” Tim’s brow rose unimpressed. “Not likely.”

“This is Jason we’re talking about.” Bruce could feel his voice rising, because why can’t Tim see? “He’s unpredictable.”

“Is he?” Tim said, with a casualness that Bruce feared. “It’s not like you hung out with him to know.” He snidely commented.

Bruce stumbled back, that blow was personal. It took all of Bruce to hold himself together, to not let Tim get to him.

How wrong he was.

“Family paintings, movie nights, patrols, hell - ” Tim exclaims. “His legal status.” He lists and each point drives the knife further and further into Bruce’s heart.

Bruce trembled in anger for Tim at pointing that out at him, for him to remind how broken Jason’s and Bruce’s relation was before… _everything._

Now Jason was just a mass murderer…no, he wasn’t even Jason anymore. He was the Red Hood. He didn’t deserve the name ‘Jason’. Jason was for Bruce Wayne’s son, his boy, his Robin. The Red Hood had no right to call himself ‘Jason’.

And Tim, young Timothy, so bright, so loved, every part of his family as Damian yet standing here, with fire in his eyes, was _defending_ Hood. Hood? Of all people? The same monster that had tried to kill him over and over again all those years ago. Him?

Why was he defending _him_?

A growl escaped Bruce’s throat before he realised what was happening. “Don’t you dare – ”

“Hush now, Bruce.” Tim casually patted his arms. “There are people watching.”

A flush of red hit his face with damnation. _Stupid. Asinine._ But it was too late, hearing the harsh whispers of those around him, eyeing the two with delight. They couldn’t hear what was being said, but they could feel the hostility, and they loved it.

He could see it now, the headline for tomorrow’s paper.

_Tim Drake ~~Wayne~~?_

Knowing there was nothing he could do to stop any of it, he doubled down. No longer was he talking to a son, he was talking to a soldier. A disobedient soldier. “His actions that night cannot be forgiven. Hundreds of innocent lives were taken by him.”

“How would you know?”

“He didn’t deny his actions.” A coldness imbued in his words.

“More like you never gave him a chance to speak.” Tim voice grew in retaliation. “You didn’t set up a crime scene. You just saw him and thought, ‘You know what? Let’s be a piece of shit and beat up a kid I once called my son.’ Now Crime Alley won’t say a damn thing and our only witness has disappeared. Where the hell is the detective work in that?”

Bruce gritted his teeth, annoyed that Tim wasn’t seeing it. This was not how he trained him. To be so obstinate, so disobedient, angered him greatly. “I was doing what was necessary.”

Tim paled at his words. “Necessary?” The disguise crumbled. “Necessary?! None of that was necessary. None of that was needed. He had ‘resigned’ himself to you, literally laying right there and you kept going! Where was the necessity in that?”

A growl was let loose and many spectators bristled at the noise. They definitely heard that, and felt this picture perfect image shatter with it. It wasn’t something they associated with Bruce Wayne. “He broke the rule.”

“How the hell would you know?” Tim argued back, and Bruce felt the weight of a thousand suns bearing down on him. “You didn’t check. You didn’t ask questions, or set up an investigation. You didn’t do your damn _job_ and jumped straight to conclusions.”

“That’s it.” Bruce snapped. “You are, effective immediately, to hand in your uniform and sit on standby until I decide you have reflected on your actions and intend to act like an adult.”

Time stops.

Neither of the two says a word, the whispers of those around are dulled out by the deep, insanity thrums of their heartbeats. Tim’s eyes are wide, saucy like round, and his breathing heightens in speed, but he doesn’t say anything, he couldn’t.

Bruce knew what Tim’s vigilantism meant to him. It was his purpose, his meaning, his everything, and Bruce took that away from him because he was being fool hearted, emotional and short-sighted to see the bigger picture.

Tim stared at him, his face morphing into something akin to hatred in his eyes. Something deep within Bruce warns him to back off, to lessen the punishment, but he ignored it. Tim needed to learn. What Jason did, what they saw was unforgiveable and if Tim couldn’t see that, then he was compromised and Bruce couldn’t have a compromised soldier.

Without a moment’s notice, Tim briskly turns arounds and walks away, but not without final words that shocked his world. “Now I know why everyone leaves you.”

Bruce stood there, shell shocked, feeling the stares of those around him dance with mischievousness as his heart pounds against his chest.

Dick left when he was young, Jason…he died, leaving a ghost to wear a red hood, Selina left him at the altar, and now Tim…his son, without a hint of regret in his voice, just the pure fury of a boy who hates his father, was slipping from his reach.

He didn’t like to think about it, how eventually even Damian would leave.

But Dick came back. They all came back. Tim will too.

Somewhere, in the background, he can feel Alfred’s disapproval piercing his walls. A huff of annoyance blew out and Bruce felt like going down to the cave and beat away his frustrations on a bag but was cut short by the introduction of a third party.

“Bruce, my boy.” Elaine’s aristocratic voice, called out, her thin body walked into view with her silver hair bobbing with each step. “What a wonderful party, as always.” Her sly smile sends a tingle down his spine.

He’s known her for most of his life and she still has that effect on him.

Bruce never liked the Petersons, so dainty and up themselves that he avoided almost all interactions with them. They were friends of his father, not him, but he couldn’t deny the work they had done with their money, which was more than he could say about others.

She’s accompanied by a man he hasn’t seen before. Mid to late 30s? 5’10? Maybe even 5’11 with blonde, groomed hair and a smooth , shiny face.

How much moisturiser does he use?

Switching back to the older female, he greets her like an old friend. “Elaine.” He puts on his charming, _Brucie_ Wayne act, forward and welcoming, shaking her bony, wrinkled old hands with a gentle purpose. He almost shuddered upon touch. “It’s so good to see you.”

“I must say, my boy. It’s such a shame that we don’t see you often. You’ve grown into a fine man.” She smiles his way, gentle and with grace but with the eyes of a hawk. Eyes that have stared down the most unruly of corporate fat cats.

“You know how it is.” He answers sweetly. “All work, no play.”

She hums in understanding. “Ah yes, the life of a positive role model. Your parents would have been so proud.”

Bruce feels a twitch in his heart, the argument with Tim is still raw in his mind. “Thank you, Elaine.” He fakes a humble smile. “Now before we continue, you must introduce me to your friend. It’s shameful that I don’t know your name.” His hand outstretched in humble recognition and the man shakes in return with a strong, hearty grip.

“Augustus, sir. Augustus Adderson.”

“August here is a new recruit to the company.” Elaine adds, her eyes ablaze with prospects.

Bruce almost rolled his in annoyance. Networking. Networking. Networking. It’s all these people can think about.

And so he resigned himself to his fate. The music of the hall was drowned out by Elaine’s constant chattering and the odd chuckle to fill the void.

But none of it completely washes away the heavy heart he has at the boy…man he can’t call a son anymore, too angry, too narrow-minded to see the truth. Just another fight waiting to happen.

Whether a fight of fist or battle of words, each left him bitter and raw and he had no idea how to fix it.

 

~

 

He moved quickly and painfully away. It hurt, so fucking much. Bruce has that effect of people, the way he knows someone so well to punish them, to make them hurt without even lifting a finger.

With fast, hurried steps, Tim barged through the cedar doors onto the East Terrace, letting the Gotham night wind hit him as he breathed in the cold air. It calmed him, cooled him down.

He was tipping and he knew it.

Bruce… _fuck_.

He knows he shouldn’t let it get to him, he knows that he is his own man but hearing the finality in Bruce’s voice, the harshness in his tone, Tim feels weak.

He hates it. He hates how Bruce has that effect of him. How his Robin training wants to follow Batman’s every beck and call and Tim just feels… _used_. Like a tool that isn’t worthwhile anymore, isn’t as sharp or as efficient as it once was. Bruce…he does that, makes people feel worthless without his approval, that they aren’t right without his acknowledgement.

Tim gripped the granite railing hard, feeling the coarseness rub underneath his fingernails.

“Sad.”

He jumped backwards, fist at the ready, his heartrate skyrocketing.

Standing there, with a deep expression was his sister, and Tim’s heart felt like it was taking a beating. First, Bruce’s bitching and now Cass scaring the crap out of him.

He wasn’t sure how much more he could handle.

“He’s sad.” Cass says once more and Tim merely huffs in annoyance.

“Duh.” He exclaims. “He doesn’t like it when one of his soldiers fall out of line.”

“No.” She shakes in head, frowning to get the right word. “He’s sad of you…always fighting…wants family again.” Her face struggles to form the words, but Tim understands her well enough.

He’s supposed to feel sad for the man, cause that’s what people do, right? Feel sad for those who want something wholesome and good? But, if the look on Cassandra’s face said anything, it was that he didn’t regret a damn thing.

“What’s the point?” He jabs. “He’ll find something else about me to brood about and then you’ll come to me, _again_ , and I’ll feel bad, _again_ , and change who I, _again_ , just so he’s happy.” Tim shrugs, because fuck Bruce, if the man thinks he’ll change who he is just so the brick feels nice and fuzzy, only to keep pushing for more, morphing him into this perfect image of what a son should be.

Another Dick Grayson.

Cass’s brow scrunches a bit, and Tim feels a pang of regret, seeing the dejection on her face. He hates it, all of it. How his family guilt-trips him and labels him as this ingrate who takes advantage of Bruce’s ‘love’.

 _All_ of them, Cass, Damian, Dick…even Alfred and it fucking hurts, each and every time that he becomes labelled as the monster whilst Bruce sits on his high horse and waits for Tim to come grovelling back.

Tim would almost laugh at the irony of it all, how similar he is to Jason. How he’s grown to emulate his big brother.

“Jason…bad.” Cass urges, and Tim wants to punch _something_. It’s not fair, how all of the family just hoped in line to Bruce’s word, without facts, without doing actual casework and just…dehumanise Jason like that.

“We don’t know for sure.” He tries to counter, but the look of determination of Cass’s face says otherwise.

“He kills.” She presses.

“How the hell would you know?!” He snaps, and Cass steps back outside of his punching range.

 _Fuck_. He was falling so hard.

“Shit…” He shakes his head, shamefully. “I’m sorry, I – I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped like that.”

Cass doesn’t reply, and Tim rubs his head in anger, in shame, in annoyance and it just feels too much.

“You weren’t there, Cass.” He explains slowly, his frame shuddering at the memory. “ _Fuck…_ ” He hissed out. “He didn’t even fight back, and they – they just kept going. I only managed to pin Damian down but the others – the others kept on going, like it was nothing and Jason, _god_ , his eyes, Cass. He was so out of it, like the lights were on but nobody was inside, you know? And – and…he – I thought he was dead.” He choked out. “Those pricks didn’t care, they didn’t listen and they think _I’m_ the loose cannon? Like _I’m_ the one that fell of the handles? I just want answers, answers they don’t care about because _Batman knows best._ ” He mocked.

It was all too much. The memories, the accusations, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, the only thing grounding him was the feeling on granite digging into his fingernails.

If this is how he feels, what’s happening to Jason? How does Jason feel?

It’s been a year, a goddamn year, since anyone had made contact with him, by all virtues Jason could be dead in a ditch and Tim wouldn’t know. He couldn’t help, he couldn’t save him, and those bastards are just standing there sipping champagne feeling smug about themselves and –

“Breathe.” Cass’s soft voice snapped him out of his spiralling thoughts. Tim weakly looked back up through teary eyes, and thundering heart and for the love of god, he forgot how to breathe. “Breathe, Little Brother.” Cass urged again.

She grabbed his hands, gently squeezing them as she stared into his eyes. The desperation in him must have been so clear, as her face morphed into something of fear. Forcing his eyes shut, he sucked in a quick breath of air and it felt like a sledgehammer hitting his chest.

It felt like death, it felt wrong and foreign. How does air feel foreign?

He forced himself to breathe, to endure it, to keep going. Jason was out there, somewhere, and Tim would be no help to him broken. With deep, gulps of air, Tim felt his heartbeat slow down, the trickle of sweat coldly slide down his forehead.

Is this what Jason felt? Every day since he came back? To be shunned? Ignored? Made to feel inferior to everyone else, when he had every right to be an equal?

For fucking years, the preached their song, about how _Jason_ _was family,_ and how you never give up on family and they just –

_Fuck._

“I’m going to find him, Cass.” Tim finally managed to even himself out. “I don’t care what you or Dick or even Bruce says. I’ll find him. I’ll find the truth of that night. If he’s guilty, then I’ll treat him like every other case, with a _fair_ trial, like we have _always_ done. But…” He trailed off, hesitation hanging on his words.

“But?” Cass urges him on, still not seeing the point.

“But if he’s innocent, if Bruce beat Jason to a pulp for _nothing_ , do we even have the right to call him family again?” Her eyes widened in horror.

Jason would never come back, not to any of them, if _that_ was what was waiting for him every time something went wrong.

What’s worse, worse than the possible truth, worse than the resentment and heartache was that Bruce and Dick will hunt him down, claiming they love him and that they’re sorry, forcing themselves into Jason’s life like they had a right, thinking that they know best and Jason…

Tim didn’t even want to know what Jason would do.

“We spent years trying to convince him, to bring him back to our side, to stop his tirade of vengeance, to be a family again. And he was finally back. Albeit slowly, but it was happening…He even took me out to art exhibits and for brief moments, even if he tried to hide it, I saw the same kid I once followed all those years ago.” Tim choked, pain aching at his throat. “But this isn’t Joker murdering a soldier. This is Bruce, the closest Jason ever had to a father, beating him to an inch of his life just because he was there. If he is innocent, I don’t – I don’t know if he should come back.” He admitted and it felt like a punch in the gut to say it out loud.

If Jason was innocent, if the Outlaws were just at the wrong place at the wrong time, then Jason had every right to leave them behind. If Jason was innocent then Bruce didn’t deserve Jason. He didn’t deserve his forgiveness and certainly not his love.

And like a vice gripping his heart, a numbing question encased Tim.

What about him?

When Dick started doting more and more on Damian, Jason was the one that tried to bring Tim back into the family. Jason was the one that checked up on him to make sure he was okay. Through thick or thin, Jason was there.

In Tim’s heart, Jason had become the big brother that he looks up to, not Dick. A true brother. A brother that knew when to leave him be and when to push him out of his shell with his snarky jokes and his own special way of saying “I love you”.

What about their relationship?

“Work first.” Cass spoke slowly. “Worry later.”

A shudder vibrated throughout his body, feeling the weight of his sister’s words engulf him. She knew, she _always_ knew, that he was jumping, bouncing around ideas in his head with no window for escape. So unfocused that he had already forgot his goal.

Don’t think about the ‘what-ifs’. He needed to get his facts first. He needed to prove, with absolutes that Jason was either guilty or innocent. It had to be ironclad. Unquestionable. Then and _only_ then will he delve deeper into handling Jason.

“Yeah…you’re right.” He smiled softly, with eyes of determination. “Thanks Cass.”

She nodded her head slowly and left him to his own devices. With only the muffled sound of classical music echoing through the Manor walls, Tim sighed as he looked at the stars, wondering if Jason, wherever he was, was doing the same.

Somewhere, out there, Jason was alone, maybe in pain, maybe dead and Tim didn’t know.

Shaking his head sadly, he steeled himself, readying for the emotional storm he had to fight through. Bruce, Dick, the brat, they weren’t going to help, they made that loud and clear, too stubborn to do their jobs, too emotionally constipated to compromise to see the grey that they absolutely refuse to budge.

They were too focused on hunting a criminal, than searching for a witness.

And the girls. Steph, Barbara, even Cass, they wouldn’t help, or rather _couldn’t_. Batman is too controlling, too demanding to have them go against his orders. Because at the end of the day, that was what they were; Soldiers who follow orders.

Once upon a time, Tim would have too. So wide-eyed and hopeful about the life of a Robin that he would have done anything to have Batman’s approval, and he’ll admit it, there was still a part of him that still sought that comfort. The hand on his shoulders, the strong hold of his hugs and the way everything shined when Batman says “I’m proud of you”.

Batman has that way with people, to make them seek for approval, to hop in line and say “Yes, sir”, so desperate, so addicted to his warmth that it makes them feel worthless without.

But that was weeks, months, maybe even years ago. Years of dismissals, years of solitude, years of hard, laborious work without even a “thank you”. Tim loves Bruce, he does, and he knows Bruce loves him too, but Tim also knows when he is being used, treated as another tool, another soldier, another piece of the puzzle.

Maybe that was why Jason when he was young. Being treated as a legacy, not a son.

And that was what Tim felt like for years, with only Jason to pull him out. Here, now, Tim knew where he belonged. Bruce had made that abundantly clear. He was asking questions, second guessing Bruce’s orders and Bruce didn’t like that.

And when Bruce didn’t like something, Damian didn’t like it.

And Dick, the glue of the family, always, every damn time, would try and piece together Bruce, not the victim that is being shunned and disregarded. Not the younger brother that he swore to protect and love every spare second he could but the full-grown man that couldn’t pull his own head out of his own ass and seek the truth.

They weren’t going to help. This is something Tim will have to do alone.

Walking away through the East passage, he didn’t notice a set of blue eyes watching him through the terrace window.


	3. Unconquerable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some memories are best kept forgotten and some memories should be treasured.

_Jason breathed, slowly, laborious and broken. He felt his ribs click against each other as his lungs expanded. A prick of sharp bone against soft tissue could be felt and it took all of Jason’s will not to cough or flinch or give away his alertness._

_They had beaten him. Not through some sick game or some masterful plan._

_They had come at him, kicking and screaming, and Jason had been beaten to an inch of his life from people he considers a family. He wanted to cry, to weep at the injustice the world had, the throw himself into despear at his life. His worthless, castaway, broken life._

_He felt his throat wobble reliving his memories. Dizziness, pain, fear, anger. They all crushed him. Jason wanted to cry. He didn’t do anything wrong. Why did they come at him?_

_And maybe he would’ve cried. Maybe he would had screamed and thrashed around, at them, at Batman and the two little bitches that hung to his side. But he couldn’t. His eyes were black and swollen, barely able to see Dam…Robin on the passenger seat and Nightwing to his left. Blood soaked his teeth, almost drowning him in the taste of iron and betrayal._

_Why?_

_Why did they do this?_

_He kept himself stable, relaxed when all he wanted to do was to kick Batman’s head into the dashboard. After this, after whatever the fuck just happened, they won’t care for him any longer. They’ll ‘restrain’ him, beat him some more and toss him right next to the Joker. Jason didn’t, because he knew, that he was too broken to fight back._

_There was no way he could win. Not with the way his body was now. Something cracked inside him, and not like some spiritual voodoo light vs dark bullshit, something **physically**_ _cracked inside him. His pelvis maybe? He couldn’t tell, too much pain to register what was wrong with him._

_It was **everywhere**._

_From his head to his toes, they were thorough with the beatdown. Every inch of him was screaming in pain, agony seeping into his very bones and in some cases broken right through. The ones he could tell, the ones that were far more painful than the rest…they were bad._

_His outer thigh ached, stinging relentlessly. Jason had felt it before, way back…way back with the Joker. His femur was cracked. Wriggling his toes, an electricity of pain travelled up his leg and he almost hissed in retaliation as it stayed there._

_Fuck…He wouldn’t be able to move, much less fight in this condition._

_A cracked femur, and a few dislocated toes were nothing compared to his upper body. His right arm, his dominant arm, the first thing that was broken by the brat, limiting his fighting ability, was snapped. Once where one bone was, now there were two._

_Through bloodied vision and swollen eyes, Jason could see the terrifying whiteness of his bone sticking out of his upper arm. The bastards didn’t even bandage it up right. Only enough to stop him ‘dirtying’ up the car. Through teary eyes, he felt something he had long forgotten._

_Worthlessness._

_He had hidden from it, fought against it for years. Willis reminded him everyday how worthless he was, how cheap beer and no condoms resulted in him. Sheila screamed at him as the Joker wailed down on him how he was a mistake, that his very existence was a hurdle, a roadblock for her…_

_And now them. How his broken, snapped in two arm wasn’t even important enough to be placed in a splint. More worried about the bloodstains that the possible loss of an entire arm._

_They didn’t need to say it, but Jason still heard it. He wasn’t even worth the disinfectant to clean up this mess._

_Breathe in…ow…breathe out._

_“Warden.” Batman’s gruff voice spoke into the radio. “I am on route with the Red Hood in custody, we will be passing the bridge soon. Prepare armed escorts for his arrival.”_

_“Copy that. Arkham will be ready.”_

_Jason’s heartbeat spiked. Arkham? Those bastards were bringing him to Arkham? No no no no. He’s not going back. Never again. Not next to **him**._

_His eyes flickered back and forth between Batman and Nightwing. Blue Bitch hadn’t said a fucking word this entire time, and he was letting it happen? What happened to all those “You’re family. We never give up on family” bullshit moments? What the fuck happened to that?_

_But Nightwing stayed silent, only glancing to see if Jason was awake or not. With his swollen eyes and the darkness of the night, Dickwing didn’t realise their captive was awake._

_“Breathe, Jason. Calm your bitch ass down and breathe.” He ordered internally. Assess, analyse and react, the three step plan out of any situation. Bruce…Batman had taught him that._

_He was in the car. Batman and Robin were up front at the driver’s seat and passengers side respectively. Nightwing was half a foot to his left. All of them prioritising to look dead ahead, probably to ‘ashamed’ to look at the criminal they once considered family. There was no one else, it was too tight to fit in a fourth person, but then again they all thought they wouldn’t need to if three Bats were transporting one broken criminal._

_Both his hands and legs were handcuffed to both sides of the makeshift bed and in the corner of Jason’s eyes, he could see his shattered helmet resting on the small equipment bench. From what he could see, it was irreparably damaged, but some components might still be able to function._

_He couldn’t tell the time, too risky to move his head and see the digital clock so he looks through the window instead. It was still dark out, pitch black sky with the odd street lamp to pass by. Fuck, he felt dizzy just looking out, black spots lingered in his vision, brain concussion, possible burst vein behind his eyes…shit._

_Batman said the bridge? Must be the state bridge to the penitentiary. Jason’s breathing evened out, because at the very least, that was good news. ‘Project Invictus’ was designed exactly for this scenario…well, not exactly, Jason never thought it would be the Bats that would have beaten him black and blue and dragged his bloodied ass to Arkham but he couldn’t meddle on that anymore. ‘Project Invictus’, Jason racked his brain, feeling a wave of nausea hit him in spades, trying to remember the plan. It was a failsafe, something he hoped he would never have to use, in the event that someone would take him back there, back to the clutches of the Joker. He prayed for it to never happen, apparently God didn’t listen, or maybe he didn’t care._

_He waited and waited, until that faithful bump, that damn speedbump no-one has cared to remove met the Batmobile’s tyres, and Jason’s body rattled in pain. That was the cue._

_Jason watched through the tinted windows, seeing street lamps blur past them and he counted. Through course and tired throat, he recited. It hurt, like the beating that Willis use to give him, his throat protested against its use, but Jason forged on. “Out of the night … black as … pole to pole, I thank … may be for my unconquerable soul.”_

_“What the hell is this idiot mumbling about?” Was it the brat? Jason couldn’t tell, focusing his damaged and concussed brain to remember the rest of the poem._

_“… fell clutch of … I have not winced nor cried aloud. … my head is bloody, but unbowed.”_

_“It’s just the loons of the criminal insane, Dami. Just ignore it, we’re almost there.” Nightwing’s voice was terse, holding back the bloodlust to pounce and continue his work._

_“… place of wrath … tears looms …. And yet the menace of the years finds and shall find me unafraid.”_

_“Wait, Nightwing.” Batman ordered, straining his ears. “It sounds familiar.” Jason hoped and prayed with all his heart that his helmet could pick up the phrase through the garbled mess of his voice. It had to work, he **needed** it to work._

_Swallowing the pool of blood in his mouth, his teeth dangling in place, and forcing his throat to speak clearly, he persisted on. “It matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.”_

_“Invictus by William Ernest Henley.” Batman breathed. Whipping his body around, he shouted an order at his soldier. “Shut him up. It’s a passphra –”_

_The bridge exploded before he could finish the sentence._

_Fire and rubble sparked out underneath the Batmobile and all of its inhabitants rattle inside like rats in a cage. Jason whined in pain at the shock but held firmly onto the bedding rails. Opening his eyes, as the world spun in mayhem, he saw Nightwing move his way intending to pin him down._

_Jason had other plans. With a quick yank, the cuffs that chained his left hand down scraped the skin of his wrist clear off, messy and bloody in all the wrong ways and Jason merely grunted in pain, too tired to scream, reaching out and pulling onto one of Nightwing’s pouches._

_Dickhead reacted too slow. With a powerful, blinding light, the small enclosed space of the car lit up and Jason forced his eyes shut tight, avoiding the rays._

_Nightwing wasn’t so lucky. Point blank range, with his cowl’s night vision mode on meant he was blind the instant the flashbang exploded. “I can’t see!” He screamed over and over again, and it was out of pure luck, or maybe irony that the swollen tissue around Jason’s eyes beared the brunt of the bang._

_“Nightwing! Calm down!” A deep, forceful order rung out, as the Batmobile spun out of control, the structure of the bridge falling apart underneath. “Both of you, get out of the car.” Batman yelled again, and Jason, through bleary eyes, saw Robin pull Nightwing out as the car balance precariously on a broken ledge._

_A loud thud could be heard, through the insistent ringing of his ears, and out of the corner of Jason’s eyes, Batman was breaking down the dented door in order to reach to him. Whipping his head around, ignoring the twinge in his neck, Jason eyed a small piece of shrapnel, probably from the weapons vault in the back, landing just out of reach. Fear and desperation engulfed him, as he could hear three distinct sets of sounds, hammering away behind him._

_Desperate times, desperate measures._

_Lunging out to that sliver of salvation, he felt his compound fracture almost tear his right arm in half, Jason whimpered in pain, eyes flooding with tears, because this was too much, it was all too fucking much._

_The banging grew louder, angrier and Jason forced his head back into the game. Pulling his left hand back he managed to lockpick the cuffs on his right arm in a second flat. A crash shocked his world, as Batman’s hand went through the window, eerily close to him, snapping merely inches from his face. Forcing himself to sit up and away from the hands of fate, his ribs practically puncturing his lungs, Jason worked on his legs._

_Batman and his brood broke down the door in three seconds. Jason got out in two._

_It was his ex-mentor that moved towards him first with a steely, anger underneath his visor, and Jason wanted to burn the world down for leading them to this point. In Bruce’s eyes, there was no more Jason._

_Letting gravity take control, he rolled down the slope into the cold, river below. “Activate ‘Final Fight’,” was the last words he uttered before falling into a deep slumber._

_The eyes of his helmet beeped rapidly and it took both Nightwing and Robin to pull Batman out of the car before Jason’s helmet exploded. The extra explosion took out the rest of the broken structure down with him and Batman and his team had no choice but to retreat to dry land._

_“Fuck!” Nightwing cursed. “We have to go after him!” He yelled at Bruce, but the older man stayed silent, watching the waves below crash and ripple from the debris._

_“He blew up the bridge.” He muttered. Analysing, always analysing._

_“No shit, he blew up the bridge!” Nightwing yelled again, because Bruce was doing nothing._

_“Tt.” Damian irritatedly clicked. “You aren’t seeing the bigger picture, Nightwing.”_

_“And what is that?” Dick looked between Damian and Bruce, calming down from his fit. What was he missing?_

_“He knew we would one day take him back to Arkham.” Batman uttered under his breath. “This was all planned for years. The killings, the arrest, the escape. This was all a plan in the making.”_

_Dick paled. Jason set this all up? He truly had finally succumbed and be the murderous scumbag he was always going to grow up and be. “He knew this was going to happen?”_

_Bruce, **no** , Batman grunted. Briskly turning around, he called into his communicator. “Penny One. Get Superman on the line. I need him back in Gotham ASAP.”_

 

~

 

Survival of the fittest. The weak die whilst the strong live. That was the undisputed law of life.

Times change, they always do. People grow up, they move on, some die, some don’t and some...well, you know the rest.

Humanity advances with each discovery, revealing another secret of life’s many eternal wonders. They become sophisticated, moved on from their primal tendencies and become dignified, refined, better than what they once were.

But fighting…pain through fists or words, it doesn’t matter, that has never changed.

Fighting doesn’t _change_ , it evolves. It creates new ways to harm, to hurt, to maim and to kill, and no matter how far people progress, no matter how different from their Neanderthal counterparts they are, no-one could deny that _feeling_.

It can’t be easily swept away, only hidden with false smiles and charming grins, but it lurks in the shadows, waiting for a moment to be unleased, waiting for a reason to strike.

No matter how far humanity has progressed, that _law_ , that unspoken truth of dominance and power remains untainted throughout the passage of time.

The process might have changed, and the methods are questionable, at best, but the end result remains the same. The people who live, who control, who get to rewrite history are strong, while the losers, the broken, bloodied and beaten, the ones who die are weak.

Batman was strong. Jason was weak. It was as simple as that.

Jason was going to be dragged into Arkham, broken in more ways than one, forced to obey the strong and be another follower in the halls of Gotham’s notorious madhouse.

He has to become stronger. Stronger than anyone else. Strong enough so no-one takes away his family from him ever again. Strong enough so he can deliver the pain he felt back ten-fold.

He needs more.

On the outskirts of Matera, alongside the coastline, where ocean meets mountain, one could see a lone figure, shirtless and exhausted, gripping the side of a cliff for dear life.

Jason’s instincts are running wild, feeling the pounding beats of his heart course through his veins and he feels _alive._

In some odd way, it’s comforting knowing the brutal training he is putting himself through, bones grinding against cartilage and nerves flaring on overdrive, reminds him, that right here, right now, he’s alive.

Artemis and Biz used to do that to him. Make him feel alive. Worthwhile and safe. Like the harshness of the world was nothing to the comfort that was his family. The big goof would cuddle him relentlessly on the couch only to doze off on his shoulder whilst Artemis sat by the love seat staring at the two with adoration in her eyes.

There was something about Artemis that he couldn’t really explain. The way she would look at him, without the sharp defensiveness she normally held, warm and affectionate in all the right ways.

She looks at him as if there was something worth looking at and he feels… _special_ in ways he’s never felt before.

It’s warm and safe and home. Blankets and hot cocoa. Videogames and beer. Artemis and Bizarro.

But his home was now rotting in different prisons around the world, so he finds other ways that make him feel alive.

Training does that to him.

It reminds him that his blood is still pumping, his body is still working and his heart is still beating. Scaling up the Southern cliffs, the wind ruffles his unruly hair, and the spray of water hits his sun kissed skin, it’s exhilarating and exhausting but it makes him feel _real_. Like he has a chance to live, to fight back, to show the world what it means to cross Jason Todd.

He needs more.

The rock wall feels course underneath his fingertips, gripping with an unshakable vice on the Cliffside of Matera. Emotions are running rampant in him; fear tells him to stop, to rest his tired muscle and to fight another day but his desires, his wants, his needs tell him otherwise. Batman won’t give him a rest when he’s tired. They won’t be sipping green tea and talking about the ‘good-ol-days’.

No! Batman will give him hell and Jason better be ready to dish it right back.

He needs more.

Batman only cares about the undisputed laws of the fist. Survival of the fittest, where the winner controls what is true and false, and if there is one thing Jason Todd can do, it’s survive.

Dust fills into the cracks of his skin, so abused and overworked through sheer willpower alone, yet Jason lunges up higher and higher, with only the deafening sounds of the waves hitting the rock wall below.

No harness to hold him close, no equipment to secure his weight, no mats to break his fall. It’s exhilarating and terrifying to know that one millimetre of mistakes, one breath of relaxation spelt death. Harsh, unforgiving death.

It’s perfect.

The greater the punishment, the greater the reward.

It forces him to be better, to aim higher, to achieve greatness. He feels the twinge of his shoulders from overexertion, muscles contracting slowly, feeling the grind of fibres rubbing against each other.

Jason reaches a sloped section and he feels the weightlessness of gravity takes his legs, as he lets them dangle underneath him. Free and terrifying, with only his hands to keep him safe. His fingers feels cramped, strained, aching through his limbs but he pushes on further with a grunt, breathing heavily, supplying his body with oxygen.

Crisp and clean enter him, keeping him alive. Alive to keep going, to keep fighting, to keep improving.

He needs more.

As the cliff face curves back into a vertical wall, Jason smirks a challenge at what laid ahead. An almost smooth rock face, with barely any ledges to go on. Securing his footing, he shakes the lactic acid out of his hands, feeling the rush of blood pump back in.

He’s alive.

Tentatively, but with conviction, he reaches up and curves his fingertip into small cracks, barely enough for a pebble to rest on. His fingertips strain on his body weight, all 220 pounds of pure muscle.

_When you feel down, train. When you feel happy, train. When you are weak, train. When you are strong, train. Never stop training, Jason. Put your trust in it. Put your heart and soul into your training, and it will never betray you._

Ducra and her philosophies.

He never really listened to it all those years back. So angry and vengeful, only focused on the next kill that he never listened to her words of wisdom. A cocky little shit that learned how to throw a punch and ran to the next teacher so full of himself only to get his shit kicked in by Batman.

She knew that was the fate he would live, the road that he had taken and if he could go back in time, he would slap his younger zombie ass for thinking so, and he knew that Ducra would not mind one bit.

She was harsh like that. Tough and stern in all the right ways, and a grandmother figure in others.

He had failed himself. He had failed her.

Her teachings, her wisdom, her care, he had failed all of it.

And a small part of him new it was the guns. His equipment was a big factor, so heavily reliant on his gear that he forgot what it meant to be a fighter.

His guns. His customised Jericho 941s had their uses. Crooks and criminals are more afraid of a gun than they were of a blade. A weapon of fear. Big, loud and dangerous. But deep down, it was a way to get back at Bruce, blatantly disregarding everything he was taught, taunting the Batman in his face at the weapons of destruction he holds.

Somewhere along the years he had lost himself. He forgot what it meant to wield weapons. They were tools, nothing more. A way to achieve one’s objective as efficiently as possible, but he had mixed practicality with emotions.

He had lost his way as a warrior.

It was the first decision he made when he stepped on this new path of betterment. Jason will still use guns. They were indispensable and still effective tools of warfare, but he won’t rely on it, he won’t depend on it with such ferocity as he once did, because now they weren’t objects to mock Bruce Wayne, they were weapons of war to fight Batman.

But a weapon was useless without a competent handler.

Now, with a target on his back and a team in chains, he’ll admit, throwing away his pride, that he is not competent. He is good, no doubt about that, but he isn’t _excellent_.

What was that quote Bruce Lee said?

_I fear not the man who has practiced 10,000 kicks once, but I fear the man who has practiced one kick 10,000 times._

Back in his Red Hood days, back in Gotham, back with the Outlaws, when was the last time he truly did that? Trained relentlessly? Remoulding himself into something new, something _more_?

Yeah…he was not a man to be feared. Not yet, anyway.

A Master of the All Caste? He scoffed at such a title. Jason failed in every sense of the word ‘Master’.

Which is why he faces the almost impossibly smooth cliff side, his fingers digging into the barest of cracks, feeling his muscles twitch and ache in exhaustion, yet pulls himself further upwards.

Start from the basics and work his way up. That’s what it means to train. Letting the harshness of reality encompass him once again, guiding him, breaking him and creating him into something more than the Red Hood.

A new vision. A new being. A new purpose.

He crawled up that rock face, an inch at a time, mindful of where he positioned his fingers, controlling his adrenaline to keep steady, body plastered to the surface, feeling the roughness grate against his skin. His body screamed in pain. Blinking away the sweat that fell into his eyes, he focused on that daunting little ledge, now barely 5 yards away from him. It was close. Painstakingly close, teasing him, mocking him. He might have restarted the entire track all over again, because it felt so dista –

_Ring._

 “Shit!” He cursed, as his right hand slip from the ledge. The chime of his phone caught him off guard.

Two-hundred and twenty pounds dangling in fear on the fingertips of 4 digits. He looked down at the jagged rocks below, watching it being assaulted by the unforgiving nature of the sea, crashing with a deadly bang showering the cliff side with a sheer of mist.

His phone kept ringing and ringing, but his mind told him to focus, to complete the mission, to not let it get to him. “You fucking idiot.” He reprimanded himself.

Throwing his right hand up, latching back onto the small indent, he felt his heart hammer with nerves. _Stupid_ , _dumbass motherfucker._ This was just another reminder why he needed more training, so easily distracted that it almost cost him his life.

That damn chime kept on ringing and Jason knew exactly who was on the other end of the line. He called contacts, they didn’t call back. _That_ was the rule. But there was one exception to the rule, and if he didn’t pick up, he had hell to pay for.

5 yards or one phone call. He knew which one he would rather risk his life on.

Extending his arms, until he was flat against the rock wall with his right leg resting on a small crevice, he breathed in and out for the ridiculous stunt he was about to pull.

Using his right leg to push him upwards, he pulled down _hard_ and rocketed himself upwards, through tired and broken down muscles and flew towards the ledge. A catch of safety, a moment of pride. _He did it._ Jason won’t deny it, the stunt was stupid and he was a dumbass for even thinking it but at the end of the day, it worked. That’s all that matters, right?

With a final pull, he hoisted himself up over the cliff and rolled onto his face, gasping for air, letting the tingles in his arms go away. Something in him bubbles and through exhaustion and clear lunacy, he laughs.

 _God_ , it felt amazing. The rush, the euphoria, the accomplishment. In his own little bubble, a small pocket of time, he felt like he was king of the world. Is this what it’s like to be strong? To overcome limitations and be… _more?_

The rings from his phone snapped him out of his thoughts. Jason groaned as he sat up, his head swirling for sitting up too fast. Putting the phone next to his ear, Jason couldn’t tell if his heartbeat was too loud or that Talia wasn’t speaking.

 _“Care to explain to me why you didn’t pick up immediately?”_ Second one, then.

Jason smirked at her voice. Familiar and…safe. He didn’t like to label anyone as safe, not after Bruce, but this was Talia. Heiress of the Demon, his saviour, the woman who stuck out her neck for a braindead zombie. “Just getting some extra training in. No biggie.” He dismisses and hears a huff as a result.

 _“As much as I admire your dedication, taking a rest is also part of training.”_ Talia informs and Jason feels warm hearing her voice. She doesn’t coddle, not even close, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t care.

“I’m sorry.” He says meekly. Jason had learned early on that it was best to just give in to Talia’s demands, less work that way. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t talk back, but he would rather not get dragged around town by the ear… _again._

That was humiliating.

She huffs again, and Jason couldn’t help but smile at the sound. Affection and warmth radiating off in waves. How does someone do that? Make him feel warm and safe over a phone call? _“Your request has been completed to your specifications. Once in location, I’ll send coordinates for the pick-up.”_

He nods for his own benefit. “Thanks, T.” Another step in the right direction.

 _“I’m sorry I can’t do more. After this, any further interactions will place suspicion on me and he **will** come, as he did when you first disappeared. Tayir. I truly am sorry.”_ Jason smiled faintly at the apology. If there was anything else Talia could do for him, she would, but right now was where their partnership ended.

Batman knew of her involvement with his treatment and subsequent disappearance, even if it was only speculation. Jason was already tip-toeing the line, requesting for gear and intel, and anymore would no doubt have Batman breathing down Talia’s neck. She wouldn’t sell him out, but it didn’t mean there were other ways Bruce would get the info out of her.

When it came to Jason, Bru – Batman would do anything.

They couldn’t push the envelope anymore. Too risky.

“It’s okay, T. You’ve already sent over the tricky stuff. The rest I can either make myself or find through my contacts.” She hummed in acknowledgement, yet her tone held something wistful and shallow. “T?”

 _“You were unresponsive for a month.”_ Jason stilled at her words. The light hearted tone of the conversation flew out the fucking window. “ _Why that man sought to hurt you like that I will never understand, and after the events of that night, I simply do not care for his reasoning. But…are you sure…I cannot bear…”_

Was Talia hesitating? Normally Jason would be worried about it. She is never one to mince words or stammer in conversation. Any less was considered a weakness by her father and she had grown up to emulate his ideals. For her to stumble so much meant how worrying this situation was for her, but all Jason could feel was warmth radiating through his heart.

She was worried about _him_.

“I’m okay now, T.” He tried to sooth her down. “It’s okay.”

 _“It is not okay.”_ She snapped. _“My men found you, bloodied and broken, drifting ashore near the harbour. How you managed to wake up before incarceration, I will never know, but despite your clear improvements, we have lived long enough to learn that not all plans are guaranteed success.”_

“T.” Jason spoke softly, in a low tone, he had never heard her express herself so much, anger she displayed on _his_ behalf.

 _“Quiet. I haven’t finished.”_ That shut him up quick. A long, winded sigh could be heard through the phone, and with a quick moment of silence, Talia resumed, this time with less heat in her voice. “ _But…if there is one valuable lesson I learned about you the day you came back and the day you escaped, is that you can survive **anything**. Just like you’ll survive the oncoming storm. I worry, Tayir, but I also trust you. Please do not do anything that makes me question that trust.”_

“You do?” In their line of work, the word ‘trust’ had heavy implications, it was not something any of them would say out half-heartedly.

_“You know me well enough that I do not put my trust in anything that doesn’t yield results. Through blood and pain, you fought back on sheer willpower alone. That is enough to show me what you are capable of, and what you will eventually achieve.”_

Jason smiled at her words. It wasn’t exactly “You are incredibly gifted and I’m extremely proud of you” but with Talia, the meaning is the same.

Very few knew of the lengths Talia had gone through in regards to Jason’s education. She scoured the globe to find him the best, and it would be an insult to the name Talia Al Ghul if Jason was anything short of perfect.

He heavily annoyed her during his younger years, killing teachers before he was finished but listening to him now, hearing about his dedication, his commitment, there was no doubt in her mind that Jason would perform wonders.

 _“Although I have already voiced my…concerns. I must ask again. Are you sure it is wise to change your equipment so drastically? It is foolish to use a new setup that you are unfamiliar with.”_ Jason feels the bubble of annoyance slowly rise to the surface. This wasn’t the first time Talia had questioned his line of thinking, and it was starting to grate him, as if he was some naïve weakling that needed to be coddled.

“Then I’ll become familiar with it!” He hisses. Talia doesn’t respond and Jason feels like an ass for…being an ass. Breathing deeply, he explains. “I get your concerns, T. I really do. But what good is staying the same going to do for me? It’ll be just another coma waiting to happen.” He snarks, feeling Talia’s glare through the phone. “If I stay the same, with the same training, same gear, same everything, then it’s too predictable. I want to win, T. I want my family back and my old gear can’t help me accomplish that.”

A painful silence hung, but relieving damnation, Jason hears a sigh on the other end. _“Very well.”_

Jason smirks at the little victory but keeps silent, knowing he was already tip-toeing the line.

 _“We have already spent enough time.”_ She begins to conclude, and Jason feels his heart jump. _“I will call you again sometime in the future with the coordinates, from then on we will have radio silence.”_

For some reason, he doesn’t want to hang up, wanting to keep hearing her voice, her encouragement and in rare occasions, her pride. “Hey, T?” He started nervously. “Um…I – I never – ”

_“Speak quickly. We are already increasing the risks of this call.”_

Jason stammered out, sweating profusely and that wasn’t from the training. “I never got the chance to say…thank you. For everything. You didn’t need to do any of it, but you did. You kept me safe, trained me, fed me.” He sucked in a shuddering breath, raw emotion spilling out and he couldn’t stop it.

“You gave me a life when you could have walked away. So, thank you…Mom.”

A sharp spike in sound could be heard from the other side of the phone and he frowned at the noise. Did Talia just gasp? A tense silence hang between the two and Jason felt like running, but he stayed on, wishing for this moment to end.

The moment stretched out further, until she responded with a fondness very few were privileged to receive. _“Anything for you…my son.”_

His heart slammed against his ribcage hearing the confirmation. _Son…_ It felt good hearing that, if felt good _knowing_ that Talia thought of him as one of her own. A child in every sense, a mother in every way.

The call disconnected abruptly, no doubt to prevent any traces, but a small part of him, a sweet child that yearned for a family wanted to believe that she hung up out of giddy nerves. He smiled fondly at the thought.

Maybe one day, when this is all over, he’ll take her out in public, in front of cameras, just the two of them, mother and son being a family as he showers her in affection and she watches in delight the man he would hopefully grow up to be.

A normal life, he wondered. It felt weird thinking about such a faraway dream. What does it mean to be _normal_? Picket white fence with two kids kind of dream? Or college diplomas and the daily 9 to 5 grind?

Jason honestly didn’t know.

It was surreal this concept of _normality_. He’s never really considered it before, too busy surviving to see another day that he doesn’t know what to do. Nothing about his life is and should ever be considered normal. Drugs and abuse one moment, a crowbar the next. Jason Todd, by all legal virtues was dead. What does a dead man walking do? Shoot rapists where the sun don’t shine and fight immortal megalomaniacs. How the fuck is that a _good_ life? It wasn’t safe, and no way in hell was it stable.

God, _stable_. What a mystifying and heavenly word. An anomaly in any of Jason’s lives. The only stable thing about him was his ability to stand straight.

And even then…

So, sitting there on that ledge, feet swaying over the edge, he asks himself, what does it mean to be _normal_?

Not _this_. Not being on the run, not training for a war, not being _him_. Normal was everything he _wasn’t._ And if Jason was being honest, the thought scared him.

A blank page. A clean slate. A world of his making.

Where would he even start?

But a dream would always be exactly that, a _dream._ Before he could feel such bliss, he must face the harsh reality of this world. He needed to clear his name, he needed to clear his team’s name.

And that meant Gotham, with Bats and Birds and assholes with capes.

He remembers, despite Batman cracking his skull, he remembers it. The dash of red in his peripheral vision and the quick chase before a gauntlet came crashing into his helmet.

It’s frustrating how familiar it looked, like he had seen it somewhere before, but for the love of god, hated himself for not remembering it any clearer. There was the fire, the gunshots, the screams, and then that damn blur of red.

What the fuck was that Red?

It was times like these he wished he had Barbara’s eidetic memory, to look for clues that he would have normally missed, remember every bit of training and lessons he endured to be the best… but then again, he really didn’t want to remember every excruciating detail of his murder. God, the bits of that day that he could remember destroyed him, what would the rest do?

On second thought, he’s fine with not having perfect recall. But that meant detective work… in Gotham. A Gotham under the watchful eye of its benevolent grade ‘A’ jackass. As tough as it already was, reality kept finding new ways to kick him in the balls. Whatever clues or hints that could prove the Outlaws innocents were either destroyed in the fire or, by now, degraded or tampered with after two years on the run.

A cold case.

Jason groaned in annoyance.

He couldn’t even start on ground floor. At this point, he had to start in negative numbers, stalking around Gotham with a giant bullseye on his back, looking for evidence that may or may not exist, and if he was being honest, the thought alone crushed him.

What if he couldn’t prove his innocence? What then?

He could break Artemis and Bizarro out, but then what? Were they to spend the rest of their lives on the run? Constantly looking over their shoulder, waiting for the pin the drop?

That was not a life he wanted for his family.

There were other ways to live, a new planet maybe? A different dimension? But hopeful as he was, Jason was equally obstinate. _This_ earth, this planet, this Gotham was his home. He wanted to spend the rest of his life on his home. Free in all the right ways.

Getting off his ass, turning around, his back towards the horizon and Jason trekked back through the mountains to his safe house.

With the whole world against him, facing difficult odds and impossible Bats, Jason felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. This war, he didn’t want to do it, but it was the only option, his final saving grace. An all or nothing bet that he could have a life he wanted.

Robin died in that warehouse, Red Hood died on that rooftop but Jason…Jason can be more than just a kid in spandex or a zombie wearing someone else’s name.

He’s a samurai without a master.

A Ronin on a hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all. Thanks for reading, I would just like to suggest that, because I was trying to make Jason sound as if he was mumbling incoherently, that you should read the full 'Invictus' poem to understand why Jason chose that particular piece to use as a passphrase. Hope you understand.


	4. Sins of a Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seeking ones own path is difficult.

Granted, this wasn’t the _best_ idea Tim has ever had.

He’s flown above here before, in red and black uniform, above the dirt, above the grime, above the hopeless eyes but for as long as he could remember, he couldn’t think of a time after he became Robin that he had walked through these old alleyways in the bowels of Crime Alley.

Bats don’t walk on the ground, they fly in the sky.

But right now, he wasn’t a Bat, he was Tim Drake, a civilian.

Looking back at it now, despite his enthusiasm about Batman and Robin, walking around the Narrows as a rich, eleven-year-old kid, wearing designer khakis, holding an expensive camera was by far the dumbest decision of his life.

Sure, he became Robin because of it and sure, it was amazing and wonderful and every awesome feeling he could hold in his heart, leading to this new life of adventure and thrills, but he was still just a scared, easily targeted kid, who was in way over his head, running around the worst of Gotham’s slums to get pictures for his photo board.

It was stupid and great at the same time, and he doesn’t know how that describes him as a person.

Walking through these alleys with garbage littering the cold concrete ground and the stale, putrid air lingering all around him, Tim felt disgust tingle up his body as a cold darkness slowly wrapped over him, claiming him as one of its own.

Is this what it is like to live in Crime Alley?

The feeling of dread and hopelessness at every turn, constantly needing to look over his shoulder, wondering if he was going to be stabbed?

A sensation of failure churned in his gut, feeling useless and incompetent looking at the mess that was True Gotham.

Nothing has changed. An optimist would say that it hasn’t all gone to hell, and a pessimist would say nothing good has come from their work.

But Tim just felt uselessness eat him alive.

What the hell have they been doing? They had given everything for Gotham, their blood, their sweat, their tears and their lives but Crime Alley stayed the same. Like a bandage over a disease, they merely cured an infinitesimally small amount that did nothing to change Crime Alley into the vision it once was.

This is what their work amounted to?

For all their plans, all their arrests and completed cases, Crime Alley, true Gotham hasn’t changed. It was times like these that Tim thinks about the things Jason did, or rather what the Red Hood did.

He had an understanding that went beyond the Bats, only to be shunned and ridiculed for his views. Gotham doesn’t change, it takes and takes and takes. And for those that lived in the alleys and burrows of Park Row, they had to change so they could live.

Jason changed. He changed into something darker, deadlier, something else, because he understood what the Bats refused to see. Gotham will not listen to the bleeding hearts of its citizens, only through brute force and control through this anarchy of blood could Crime Alley change.

And it did change.

Despite the mountains of corpses in the Red Hood’s wake, Crime Alley did change. Crime was at an all time low, with kids being able to go to school without the risk of OD’ing from sneezy scumbags with shit products. Corner girls got home safely at night and beggars could live another day feeding on anything Jason could scrounge for them.

People felt safe, in control of their lives because someone was willing to change for them.

Tim won’t ever accept Jason’s views, or his methods, maybe it was from Bruce’s training or his own personal views, but Tim couldn’t find it in himself to let Gotham change him, to become something he doesn’t want to be, and he hates that Jason had no choice but to change.

Jason was one of the greats, _no_ , Jason is still one of the greats, but Tim wanted him to not be burdened by such demands, to live freely and be the kid he should have grown up to be.

Yet even with all his views, his morals, his rules, Tim could never deny the results. It was bloody and messy, but the Red Hood worked.

Jason always had that heart, the fire to keep going, the let himself be broken over and over again so no-one else would. A gentleness that was hidden underneath defensive anger and muddled scars. He snapped and barked and lashed out at the world but held a special comfort in his heart for those who mattered to him.

For a small moment in time, Tim felt like he had earnt that warmth. A gentleness not associated with the Red Hood, a kindness and compassion unbefitting of a crime lord. But it was there, wrapped in layers of hurt and anger, hidden behind masks and blood.

It was something people rarely ever get the chance to see.

After that night, maybe something people will never see again.

Amid his daydreaming, a hand shot out of the darkness and clamped over his mouth. The other wrapped around his body, dragging him into the cold passage from whence it came.

_Fuckin’ finally._

“Lookie here.” The words were slurred, drunken even, and Tim felt the hand around his waist venture lower and lower. “Ain’t you a pretty one.” A dark chuckle echoed out within the confined space and Tim felt a tingle travel up his spine, feeling the hot breath in his ear.

With a painful grip, the assaulter spun him around, pinning him against the wall, and Tim was met by the face of a burly man. His beard was a mess of tangles and dirt, with the dark grime of the Alley covering the white skin of his face, but it was his eyes that drew Tim’s attention.

Hunger and want stared right into him, a dark lust controlling the other man with ferocity. “My bitch ran away from me. Looks like you’ll have to do.” He slurred again.

“Pretty little thing, ain’t ya?” A chuckle ran out into the night as his eyes ran up and down Tim’s body, _examining_ him, playing with his food, and all Tim wanted to do was bash the creep’s head into the stone wall behind him.

He personally hated sting operations. They had all done it, the Robins and the girls, they had all played their part in these ops, but it always leaves a foul taste in Tim’s mouth because he hated every bit of it. Reduced to play this role of ‘Damsel-in-distress’, as scum leered and touched at them closer them with unrestrained lust.

And the worst part of all of this, was knowing that this was a daily occurrence for the residents of Crime Alley. That it was considered the norm to watch out for feral eyes and sick intentions.

This shouldn’t be normal, none of this should ever be considered normal, but it was. Every day, every moment, someone out there could leave the comfort and security of their work or homes and might never be seen again because some sick fuck decided to play God and appease their… _appetite_.

Tim forced himself to stay silent, to not move in retaliation, and it took all his willpower to do so. It would be so easy, a nerve strike along the vagus line that ran alongside the neck and the piece of shit would be on the ground twitching.

But that would ruin everything. His disguise of fear and horror would be wasted for some quick satisfaction.

“Until I’m done with you, you’re my bitch now.” The man threatened and Tim resisted the bubble that was about to burst, wanting to claw at the bastard’s throat.

It was a gamble, a waiting game of sorts, because he was putting his trust in rumours, folktales and news reports that a Red Hood would come and save him.

After Jason ‘disappeared’, this new gang fought and protected Gotham, in place of their protector, waiting until the day the Red Hood righteously takes his place among the citizens of true Gotham. Waiting until the day they could be safe again.

The Red Hoods were his unofficial soldiers. A gang of morals, with blood-soaked fists and hearts of gold.

Right on cue, Tim saw a blur of brown fly right past his vision into the assaulter’s temple, a deep _whack_ echoed within the narrow of darkness, leaving a crumbled mess lying beside his shoes. As Tim stood there, letting his breathing even out, he took the chance to look up to his ‘saviour’.

Ratty shoes, scuffed jeans and a red hoodie, Tim was met by a brown-eyed, black haired teen casually carrying a crumbling brick in his hand, staring right back at him. “The hell is wrong with you?” Tim’s confused face must have asked a thousand questions because his saviour huffed in annoyance before dropping the brick and physically dragging him by the arm away. “Why the fuck aren’t you running away?” He reiterated, and Tim curses himself because he forgot he wasn’t in uniform.

“Goddamn rich assholes.” The kid curses, dragging him out into the main street. “This is why Gotham’s goin’ to hell. Rich fucks too stupid to know how fucked up the world is.”

 _That_ struck a cord with Tim. Not the insult to Gotham elites, _no_ , he was used to that, _hell_ , he was used to saying that. What struck him was the fact that his target knew who he was. Snapping out of the kid’s grip, Tim soothed his aching arm. “How did you know I’m rich?”

A blank stare was his answer. His saviour looked at him like he was the dumbest motherfucker on the planet. “You’re Tim Drake – Wayne. One of the richest kids in Gotham. You’re practically royalty. How the fuck wouldn’t I know who you are?” A defensive anger snapped at him. It was mesmerising how similar the kid acted like Jason. So bent and broken because of the world, where people assume he was another wasted space, too dumb to live, the stupid to care about.

And Tim hated himself for automatically assuming.

“Right…” He drawled out apologetically. “Sorry.”

The kid rolled his eyes, uncaring, probably so used to the stereotype and pity that he loathes Tim’s apology. “You still didn’t answer my fucking question.” The kid growls again. “Why the fuck are you here and not in your Mansion with your rich daddy? I already ‘ave enough troubles looking after the working girls and then you show up and wiggle your ass around like fresh meat.”

Tim winced at the bluntness in those words. “I was going to meet my friend.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either.

“Bullshit.” The kid snaps, crossing his arms irritated, a stance of defiance.

“Excuse me?” Tim stumbles back, surprised at how quickly the kid countered.

“If ya really did want to see ‘your friend’.” He air-quoted condescendingly. “Then you would head straight to ‘em instead of walking through a literally death trap.” He explains annoyed, the heat in his voice rising. “Imma ask you again. Why. The. Fuck. Are. Ya. ‘ere?” He punctuated and Tim cautiously eyed his surroundings, noticing people watch their interaction keenly.

“Looking for drugs?” He asks weakly, and he knew instantly that the kid didn’t appreciate his answer. Snapping his hands to his side, his ‘saviour’ briskly turns around and begins to walk away. “I’m not gonna deal with this bullshit.” He curses and Tim’s heart leaped through his throat.

“Wait.”  He jumps, grabbing the Gothamite by his arms. He couldn’t let his only possible source walk away. The kid turns around, a deadly storm in his eyes. “I need information.”

A quick realisation flickers through the kid’s eyes and he snarls at him. Like a rabid dog ready to tear his throat apart. “You’re working with the pigs!” He yanks away Tim’s hand and steps back into a safe distance. “You can tell the fucking Batman, I ain’t never giving up the Hood.” His voice rising and Tim notices a dark fury slowly draw along the faces of their spectators.

Red Robin could get away. But Tim Drake couldn’t.

Tim was starting to seriously regret doing this sting operation.

Holding up his hands, he harshly whispered. “Keep it down.”

“Fuck no.” The Gothamite practically yelled, and Tim felt a wave of fear hit him. “If ya think the name Wayne carries any weight ‘ere, you’ve got another thing coming.” He threatens and Tim firmly believes him. “Give me one reason why we shouldn’t rip you to shreds and dump your body in the ‘arbour.” It wasn’t a question.

It was a demand.

“Only if we can talk _alone._ ” He emphasises.

A deadly silence hung out, and the people begin to get angsty. Tim felt a tribble of sweat glide down his temple as his target looked at him sceptically. With a tense beat, he walks closer until he could lean his ear next to Tim’s mouth. “Tell me.” He threatens.

This was not how Tim planned this night to go. Then again, it wasn’t so much of a plan, rather more of a hunch.

“He’s my brother.” He whispers, but he doesn’t fail to notice how rigid and tense the Gothamite becomes.

Leaning back, the kid’s eyes are wide, curious, because even an idiot wouldn’t admit to such a thing unless it was the truth. “Fuck.” He mutters and waves his hands dismissively. Those around them, looked at each other before resuming their activity.

Tim let out a breath of relief but the glare he received, snapped him back to attention.

The Hood tilts his head, silently telling him to follow. With hurried steps, he made his way deeper into Crime Alley with only the almost silent footsteps of the gang member to accompany him. “You know who I am, don’t you?” The kid asks rhetorically.

Tim blanks at the sudden statement and the kid huffs in annoyance. “I might not ‘ave been born with a silver spoon in my mouth. But do not take me for an idiot, Drake. You came into the Alley and ‘presented’ yourself like fresh meat so a Hood could come and save your ass.” He explains gruffly and Tim is impressed at how quick he deduced that.

“What gave it away, _Thomas_?” Tim asks sweetly and almost chuckled at the bloodlust directed at him.

Anger and annoyance stretched across the hood’s face but with a sigh of frustration, he answered. “It was your eyes.” Tim raised his eyebrows in question and the kid took the chance to explain. “No rich brat could ‘old himself together like you did. Your pupils weren’t dilated, and your breaths were long and focused.” He looked at Tim deeply and something burst within the older man.

He was impressed.

“You weren’t afraid.” It was a simple statement but packed undeniable truths. Tim eyes lit up like fireworks. Thomas was good. “You’re damn lucky though.”

Tum scrunched his brows. “How so?”

His saviour scoffs at his blatant act of stupidity. “If the dirtbag wasn’t as high as a fucking kite, he would have realised who you were and either ran away dickless or tried to kidnap you.”

A smile etched across Tim’s face because _damn_ , the kid was good. “You saw the track marks.” It wasn’t a question, but Thomas nodded his head anyway. The would-be rapist was drunk and out of his mind, so it was a damn miracle he was still alive.

They resumed their walk, passing busted sedans and lingering eyes. A moment of silence stretched out into an eternity, but Tim held on, because this was the closest _anyone_ has ever gotten to talking with a Hood.

No-one, not Batman or any of the Bats, not even the symbol of hope, Superman, could even get close to a Hood without getting into a fight.

He was so into his minute moment of joy that he almost failed to notice that Thomas stopped. Staring intently through a window screen, flashing lights and bright colours of a TV assaulted his eyes. Tim crunched his brows together, tentatively walking to Thomas’s side and he feels his gut clenching.

**_Superman clone, Bizarro, has been spotted wreaking havoc across the Mexican border with Harley Quin._ **

Fuck, it felt weird seeing Bizarro. The last time Tim had seen him was that night as he was being pinned down by Superman. Something inside him churns, because he had completely forgotten about Jason’s teammates.

Because of their jobs as Outlaws, they were wanted as enemies of the state but after that night they were considered public enemy number two. Right behind Joker. With the Outlaws arrested, Jason was propelled into the Justice Leagues number one most wanted. Tim cursed himself, so hellbent, so focused on Jason that he forgot about Artemis and Bizarro.

They were good people. Good, caring, amazing people, and they were treated with like trash. Dirt that should be scraped away with distain. They didn’t deserve any of this.

“They say they’re criminals.” Thomas’s musing snaps Tim out of his regret. “After Batman caught them and threw them away like garbage, everyone hopped in line and praised the almighty Batman for ‘capturing menaces to society’.” He mocked with brimming disgust.

“And you don’t think so?” Tim pushed, wanting to know more.

Thomas stayed silent for a bit, anger still readily apparent on his face. “Hood looked after us.” He began. “He took street kids too hungry to know what’s left and right to a local diner for a hot meal. Ya could see it in the kid’s eyes, another meal, another day they could live. He was their world, the closest thing they had to a parent. And those who did have deadbeat dads would always get a visit from him. A lollipop for the kid, a beating for the dad…me old man was one of them.” Thomas admits, and Tim’s heart strings tore at each other, remembering the kid’s file.

He was barely 13 when police took away Nelson Grant for domestic violence. The man was beaten black and blue with a bullet to his thigh. No doubt leaving a scar to remind the man to never lay a hand on his kid ever again. That was three years ago, and Nelson has been dead for two of it. Tim wanted to punch _something_. This was what Gotham does to kids. It takes these young, impressionable, wonderful kids and grinds them up into something they should never be. Jason tried his best, and for a good while it worked, but Jason wasn’t here anymore, leaving Thomas to look after himself.

Somewhere along the lines, he created the new Red Hood gang. Jason must have left quite an impression on him to do so and Tim wasn’t sure if he should try and get him to stop or praise him for his courage.

“The beggars were another story altogether.” Thomas mutters, and Tim feels a warmth he had once forgotten. “Money, clothes, bedding. Hood would always bring them something to survive the night. Rumours say the soup kitchen on the corner of Franks and Milton is owned by Hood.” Tim nodded along, remembering the night’s where he stalked Jason, watching with pride at the good he did. “Too bad it’s burned down now.”

Tim’s heart clenched, hearing the news. The Red Hood had many enemies, and once news spread of his beatdown, The Bowery became a warzone. Anything related to the Red Hood was looted and destroyed. Thomas and his crew did the best they could, but what could a ragtag bunch do to hardened criminals? They were scared and inexperienced with only the faith and belief of their hero to keep them going.

Faith could only last for so long.

So, they etched backwards, letting the Bats deal with it as they watched, listen and learned. As the rubble subsided and the screams died down, they came out of the woodwork fiercer, sharper and craftier.

It was impressive and terrifying that _this_ is what the citizens of True Gotham were capable of. So adaptable and fierce that sent a chill through every law enforcement in Gotham.

Their message clear clear.

The Red Hood gang was staying.

“Biz…” Thomas spoke wistfully. “Biz would play with the neighbourhood kids, taking them on flights and all that shit, you know? Fuck…” Thomas swore. “The brats loved him, so did the moms. They watched at how happy their little ones were, ‘appy as they could ever be. And Artemis! Sweet, amber goddess of badassery was the best! Punching pimps and rapists alike. A real role-model o’ sorts to the girls. She was our Wonder Woman.” Tim chuckles at the admission. But stays silent, hearing the pride and awe the kid undoubtedly had for the Outlaws. “Out there, outside of the Narrows, everyone sees them as criminals. In ‘ere, they’re heroes.”

Thomas turned to him, his expression was hard and absolute. “And heroes don’t pull shit like that.” Pointing in disgust at the news report.

Tim’s eyes fell solemnly. Because how the hell do you tell a kid one of his heroes was dragged into a black site prison, only to be the next expendable operative in Amanda Waller’s long line of slaves?

He couldn’t.

Thomas growled once more, but settled himself, muttering a quick “let’s go”. Tim followed along, no-one speaking a word as they walked through twists and turns of the alleys. After scampering along with Thomas, Tim couldn’t deny that the kid was incredible. Still rusty around the edges, but a gem nonetheless as he checked passages and evaded cameras.

Tim shuddered at a thought. With training, Thomas could be a force to reckon with. And if this was the abilities of just one kid, then what would an entire gang be capable of?

Quiet and tense, they finally made their way to an abandoned theatre deep in the Bowery, so deep only that Batman and Red Hood have ventured.

It was damp and dark, but Tim could still spot the layers of mould climbing its way up the crumbling walls as the overhead fixtures creaked through years of rust. “It’s not like the Grand Hyatt that you lot are used to, but it’s enough.” Thomas mused.

Tim merely nodded, opting to stay silent as they made their way onto the abandoned stage. Empty and dreary, with ghosts of the past whispering at them. “So…” Thomas urged suddenly, sitting down on some crates stacked along the north wall. “Talk.” He demands pulling out a knife.

If he had the time of day, Tim would have praised the kid for such dramatics, letting his ‘victim’ focus on the knife that they wouldn’t have noticed the 6 stragglers moving into position.

Two in the second row, two up top in the rafters and one of either sides of the stage, hiding behind the moth-eaten curtains. A decent strategy, covering all exits, whilst using the element of surprise.

Tim had to admit that it would be a challenge for him if things went south. No gear, no uniform and not being able to show his full skill in fear of his public image, the kid had him trapped. “We’re not related by blood or by law.” Tim explains the silent question Thomas has been racking his brain over the entire trip here.

Thomas slowly nodded his head, no doubt about his own experience of brotherhood on the streets. “Why are you taking an interest now? After two years?” He asks, still sceptical about Tim’s intentions. “Batman closed the case.” He snarled at the name.

“Because I still have questions.” A short and simple answer, but it meant everything.

Silence stretched out once again, and Thomas aimlessly twirled the k-bar knife in his hands. “And what makes you think I can trust you?”

A wave of joy and relief engulfed Tim because at least, it meant he had a shot. Now he just needed to make sure not to mess it up.

It was a stupid and naïve decision, but if it meant getting answers, Tim was willing to risk it. “Because I was there that night.” Thomas’s eyes widened in surprise, and Tim could hear the stragglers in hiding hold in a gasp. “I watched my brother beating to a fucking pulp with barely any evidence to back it up.” Tim shook his head in disgust. “There was no hard evidence. No absolute facts that Hood did any of it that night. They heard someone ramble ‘Red Hood’ and ran out searching for blood.” He let out a shuddering breath. “My brother’s blood.”

Tim lifted his head and met the gaze of the Hood’s leader with a steely determination of his own. “I want answers.”

Thomas stared at him for a while, analysing his words and emotions, watching the weight of his breathing and the fire in his eyes. Standing up from his position, he walked over to Tim, stopping a couple of yards away, knife dangling by his side.

He opened his mouth, but the whistling of Batarangs cut through the air, lodging itself firmly into the rotten wood with a solid thud stopped him entirely. Thomas whipped his head up, seeing the silhouette of a Bat gliding down towards him. “You set me up?”

Tim’s eyes widened in response, knowing that he was about to lose his only source outside of Jason. “Batman! No!” Tim turned around, yelling at the crusader, but it was all in vain as the remaining four stragglers, that wasn’t taken out by Batman, ran out of hiding into the fray.

Tim avoided by knife lunge by a hairs breath as Batman systemically took down their opponents. With a solid it to one of the Hood’s jaws, the body collapsed like a puppet without strings and Tim darted his eyes back.

But the spot that once held Thomas Grant, the leader of the Red Hoods, and Tim’s potential informant was empty.

Blank.

Never to be seen again.

Tim had just lost an informant and it was all Batman’s fault.

“What the hell was that fo – ” He never got to finish his question before Batman pulled him close and grappled up onto the hole in the ceiling. Tim struggled in his grasp, but Batman held on firm until they were on solid ground, a rooftop a block east of the theatre, away from prying eyes.

Batman keyed something in his gauntlet, no doubt to short-circuit the security cameras around before whirling around at Tim with ferocity. “What were you thinking?” A deep, yell pointed his way and Tim just saw red.

“What the hell was I thinking?! Are you fucking kidding me?! What the hell were _you_ thinking?!” Tim demanded. Because that was it, his lead, his chance, his path to answers was gone.

Thomas would never talk to him again. Not after _this_.

“You revealed your identity to a criminal!” Bruce was nowhere in sight. Only Batman stood in front of Tim, back straight peering down on him as if he was inferior, deluded and misguided.

“Not once did I mention my alias!” He countered back, wanting to beat the ever-loving shit out of Batman. “I did exactly what you trained me to do. Omit the truth whilst revealing what was necessary.”

“I didn’t train you to be so stupid.” Batman roared, and Tim felt a bristly travel up his spine. Dark and deadly in nature.

“You trained me to get answers and that’s exactly what I did! I am doing my job and being a damn detective!” Tim yelled back, because how the fuck does Bruce not see this? “More so than you ever did.”

“No! Your job is to follow orders!” Batman’s fists clenched tight by his side, teeth grating with fury. “I’m Batman. I’m the World’s Greatest Detective. I solved the case.” He emphasised each sentence and Tim wanted to lash out, to claw at his throat.

“Don’t you dare pull that bullshit on me.” Tim snapped back. “You’re not infallible, no-one is. Despite how much Robin follows your every whim, thinking you’re a god that can walk on water, everyone else knows the truth.” He seethed, stepping closer, baring his teeth at Batman. “The great Batman makes mistakes!” He screamed at the top of his lungs, enough that it echoed into the night, enough that anyone nearby could hear him.

Batman flinched backwards, disbelief on his face at Tim’s audacity to voice himself so loudly in public. But that was washed away quickly, stepping back in range towering over Tim, and chose to switch tactics. “I told you specifically that you were to hang up your uniform until I decide you are ready for fieldwork again.” He growled out.

Tim smirked a dark and devilish grin at him, feral and animalistic in nature. “Exactly. Red Robin has been benched. Tim Drake hasn’t.” Batman did not miss the way Tim failed to mention ‘Wayne’ in his title, feeling a prick at his heart. Before he could counter such a technicality, Tim pushed pass him.

Batman reached out and grabbed his hand, only to be yanked out of grip by the very same technique he trained into Tim, whirling his arm around Batman’s shoulder and shoving him away. “Don’t you fucking touch me.” A white fury on Tim’s face. “I just lost my only lead because of you. It was there, it was _fucking_ right there, and you blew it.” Anger turned into disgust and Tim sniffed disdainfully at the man he thought to be a father.

“I was protecting you.” Batman growled out, but Tim shook his head in annoyance. “He had a knife and you were surrounded.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Tim yelled. “You think I didn’t know about the 6 stragglers following me the moment I met the kid, or the fact that there were trip wires at all the exits? You think I missed all that? I knew what I was doing.”

“No, you did not.” Batman, definitely not Bruce, yelled in retaliation. “You’ve become compromised. The Tim Drake I knew wouldn’t have been such a fool to go into enemy territory alone. The Tim Drake I knew – ”

“That’s it.” Tim cut in. “I’ve had enough of this bullshit.” He turned around and walked towards the rooftop stairs, and barely heard Batman calling out to him through the thrum of his heartbeat.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Anger encompassed Tim. Now he wants to act like a father? Fuck no.

“Away from you.” He called back without a spare glance over his shoulder and ventured down the stairs.

 

~

 

Bruce watched his son, his soldier, walk away from him with an aura of disgust and fury, and Bruce wanted to scream. Why? Why? Why?

Why was Tim so obstinate? So tunnel-visioned to see the truth?

Robins always questioned orders, that was why they were there, in case Batman ever stepped off the path that he set himself on, but this was just foolish.

Disobedient.

Neglectful.

Infuriating.

Hood did this.

Hood did this to his son. Not once before the Red Hood’s disappearance was Tim ever this insubordinate, so narrow-minded and neglectful, unable to see that on this obsession was destroying him. How could he not see that?

Bruce let out a growl, and ran back to the theatre, leaping in throw the hole only to be met with emptiness.

The two guards that he had knocked out and tied were gone with only the wires left laying where they once were. As for the team of Red Hoods, they had also disappeared. There were no dusty footprints on the ground, no signs of tampering.

Only the Batarangs still lodged in the flooring to show that they were once there.

“Dammit.” He growled out, punching a support beam in frustration. Every time. Every damn time, the Hoods get better and better and Bruce has nothing to show for it.

They could do so much good, be so much more than what they envisioned themselves to be and they go and follow the Hood?

Walking out of the theatre, he pushed a button on his gauntlet, and with have deep, heavy thrum of the engine, the Batmobile came into view.

Jumping up and falling into the rooftop latch, he filed in quickly, needing to get back to the Manor as soon as possible.

With a screech of his tyres, his frown deepened seeing the smear of graffiti against the front window. Minutes, he was gone for minutes that Crime Alley already had her clutches on him. Turning on the wipers, Bruce felt the rage and despair of losing another son to another manipulator.

Hood did this.

Tim was smart, analytical, driven. Nothing like _this_.

Another manipulator, another son. His mind kept repeating those words over and over again, and like a blinding light, memories of old came crashing back.

_He had stormed the compound, decimating those that stood in front of him. The path winded with lefts and rights, hallways marked with ancestral ornaments and beautifully carved statues, but Bruce kept focused, eyeing the wooden doors grow bigger and bigger and he trekked further onwards._

_With a resounding **bang** , his foot broke the hinges of the door, swinging the timber around with a deathly anger._

_There greeting him, with her maddening look of exasperation was Talia al Ghul, the bitch that kept his son from him. “I expected you sooner, beloved.” She greets and all Bruce wanted to do was strike her down._

_“Why?” He managed growled out, not confident in himself to keep control._

_“Why – what exactly, beloved?” She teased, but Bruce could tell that she knew full well why he was here, with her._

_“Why did you keep my son from me? Why did you train him into a killer? Why?” Bruce roared, and she had the gall to smirk at him._

_“So many questions. It’s seems like the ‘detective’ is losing his touch.” She playfully smiles and Bruce lunged at her, pinning her flat into the table behind her._

_“I am done playing games, Talia. Answer me!” The playful smile disappeared without a trace, only to be replaced with a dignified anger. Disgust and distain hit him in waves, only to be replaced with the pain of a solid Rotoken landing between his ribs._

_Pushing him off her, she snarled at him, the poised and elegant Talia al Ghul was no more. Now Bruce was met with the tempest that was the Heiress to the League of Assassins._

_Batman and Daughter of the Demon._

_There was no finesse, no elegance, no rules. Just anger._

_“Because he asked for it.” She snapped. “Because you failed him, and I was left to pick up the pieces.”_

_“It is not your job to care for **my son**. It is mine.” He roared. Fists clenching tightly, feeling his fingernails dig through his gloves. “You kept him from me to get revenge and twisted him into something he wasn’t.”_

_“Oh, spare me the delusions.” She mocked. “He asked for training and I complied. Because you didn’t have the gall to do what was right.”_

_“I will never kill. It doesn’t matter who it is, or who it is for, I. Will. Never. Kill.” He emphasised and Talia sniffed disdainfully at him. Judging him, **him** , for being who he is._

_“And yet here we are. With Jason hating your existence and you blaming me for your shortcomings.” She snidely remarked._

_“Is that what you consider a shortcoming? Not committing murder?”_

_“No!” She hissed. “I’ve murdered people. He puts scum where they belong. And yet, for all the years we’ve have known each other, you have never harmed me like you have harmed Jason. A Batarang? Really, Beloved? You revoked the right to be his father the day you let his murderer live and you think you can barge into my home and berate me for my choices when you almost killed a boy you once called son?”_

_“He is still my son!” He yelled, fury trembled along his body._

_“Well, he’s under my guidance now.” She snapped. “He’s alive because at least I did something about it. More than you ever did.” He stumbles back, her words hitting him deeper than any knife could. He remembers the blood, the look in Jason’s eyes as the sharp edge of the Batarang burned through his throat. He remembers the lifelessness in the boy, sitting against the wall waiting for the bomb to go off._

_He remembers how it’s all his fault._

_“I had no choice.” He tries to counter. “He had the Joker with a gun to his temple.”_

_“And that gives you the right to try and kill him?” She screeched. “It’s a wonder how any of your so-called ‘children’ still follow your words.” Talia fists clenched and unclenched by her side, desperate for some form of release. A side of Talia Bruce has never seen before. Protective…mothering._

_“Don’t you dare tell me how to raise my children.” He growled, a tingling in his heart wanted to reach over and rip her throat out._

_“Because you’re parenting is doing wonders.” She sassed and Bruce bit his tongue, feeling the pain numb him from the need to fight. “I would have thought Jason to be the last, yet you continue to be this fool and recruit more children into your war. How many more children have died under your command? How many more will die? I dread for the day you fail Damian as well.”_

_This time he did lunge, striking her hard across the face. Talia stumbled backwards, until her back hit the edge of her desk, holding her cheek in pain. But even with the blood, even with the hurt, she kept pushing. “There it is.” She exclaims. “The Great Batman, the warrior who does not kill, strikes at those who disagree with him.” Talia laughed, wincing at the pain in her jaw. “To think I saw something in you all those years ago. What a disappointment you’ve become.”_

_And that tipped Bruce over the edge. For Talia, the Heir to the Demon, of all people, to say how far he has fallen made his bile churn. He glared at her, a brimming fury waiting to be unleashed, and so he did._

_Batman charged at her, but this time she was ready, ducking underneath his right cross and twirling around his body. Along the way, she grips the ashtray on the table and threw it at him with such veracity that it smashes on contact with his cowl, cutting his exposed jaw._

_Recoiling from the pain, he blocked the next couple of punches she threw before delivering a body shot to her left floating ribs, feeling an immense satisfaction as he felt something crack under pressure._

_She groaned from the blow, but continued her assault, pilling a knife from her ankle sheath and with a speed he had never seen in her, swiped at his belt with precision. He felt the weight fall, the weapons he had outside of his range._

_Talia never let him rest and Bruce switched to Aikido, focusing on disarming her. Twisting his body sideways, letting the knife slide harmlessly along his breastplate, he forcefully grabbed her right hand, and twisted her wrist in an awkward position, enough for her to drop the knife._

_Kicking it out of the way, they continued onwards, but this time there was no techniques, no grace in their movements. It had turned into a brawl._

_Nasty and mean. Brutal and feral._

_They were no longer human, just animals fighting for dominance, snarling at their adversary._

_She bit him, he pulled her hair, she kneed his balls and he chocked her with her dress. But it was in vain as the thin material snapped from the strain and she spun around switching to Muay Thai, sending a downwards elbow onto his collarbone._

_A resounding **crack** echoed in the small room and Bruce roared in pain, breathing deeply to ease the pain. With a deep inhale, he sent a brutal front kick to her abdomen, flinging her onto the far wall. She crashed hard into the decorations, the glass of a painting splintering into a thousand pieces and rained down onto her._

_They stayed where they were. Him resting his shoulder and balls whilst she rested her ribs and spine. Groggily, she stood up, eyes as still defiant as they had first started. They stared at each other, daring them to move, to give them a reason to lash out._

_They didn’t._

_With a deep sigh on both ends, she flopped down onto her desk chair whilst he turned around slowly, regaining his humility and began to walk away, holding his shoulder in pain._

_No-one said a word, just two people who could never look at each other the same ever again._

_A compound in disarray._

_A room in ruins._

_A past forever burned._

_He ignored the cries that resonated into the night._

The roar of the engine encompassed the cave, shocking the bats out of their slumber, filling the empty cold air with flutters and screeches echoing above. His mind snapping back to reality, feeling the deep thrums of his heart try to calm down but found in unable to.

It was unbearable to know that it was happening all over again. First, Talia and Jason. Now, the Red Hood and Tim.

It was happening and he had no idea how to change it.

Coming to a screeching halt, he jumped out of the car and briskly made his way to the monitor, eyeing the figure in blue and black casually watching the cameras with his feet propped on the desk. Normally, Bruce would have reprimanded him but tonight was not a normal night.

There were more important matters at hand.

“Hey, B. You’re back early.” His son states but Bruce hears the undercurrent of a question lurking underneath. It wasn’t uncommon for their team to call in an early night, whether from lack of crime or personal obligations but it doesn’t mean Dick wouldn’t pry.

They had that desire, all the Robins did, the need to know, to dig deeper, to understand better. It was something that Bruce held with pride about his children, so inquisitive and determined to seek the truth, that they had grown up to emulate their father.

Each of the Robins had that desire, the need to know more, but they had different ways to seek it. Tim sought out facts, absolute presentation to determine the events of a crime. Paper trails and digital footprints were the greatest weapons in his arsenal where he would spend hours, days, even weeks’ worth of data mining to find a link, the tiniest, almost incomprehensible line that connected the who’s, the what’s and the where’s.

If only he would listen to the facts now.

Damian didn’t have the same focus, the same drive to diligently seek answers. He could do it and Bruce knew with utmost pride that Damian could put his head down and deep dive a suspects account without question if it was deemed necessary for the work, but his boy focused less on facts and figures, and focused more on experience. Bruce hated the seven years of Damian’s life that he had missed out on, he hated the countless days Damian was forced to become a killer under the watchful eye of Ras. Seven years he had missed out on, seven years of birthdays, seven years of first times and seven years of a childhood, gone.

He had missed _all_ of it.

Bruce will never forgive Ras or Talia for that.

He tried to give Damian the life that he had missed out on. Giving the boy a chance to experience the little things in life that makes a man. School dances, parties and friends, he tried to give Damian it all. But it was almost all in vain.

What Bruce saw as a second chance, Damian saw as a mission.

So, Bruce decided to redirect that focus, the change his mentality for the betterment of Gotham. Damian used his experience as an assassin to see the links in blood and death where others might miss. Teachings from the best killers around the world, used to catch the very same assassins that once trained him. Damian was wonderful, easily adaptable to new techniques, putting himself in the shoes of the killer and using his experience to track them down.

A bloodhound tracking its prey.

But even with the criminal underground, none of the Robins could hold a candle to Jas - …

Dick wasn’t like Tim nor Damian, or even Bruce for that matter. He didn’t look for the who, what, when and where. Dick searched for the whys. The motive, the instinct, the drive to commit a crime. He searched for emotion. Something none of his boys, or Bruce himself, could fully master. Dick used it to drive him, to pull him closer and push him away when needed.

He trusted his gut, letting his training take care of the rest. He felt how people present themselves, how they converse, how they interact, how they hide behind a layer of confidence. A useful ability he had polished perfectly throughout his time underneath Bruce’s wing.

The original dynamic duo. His emotions to Batman’s stoicism.

It’s the very thing Bruce needs right now.

“Dick.” Bruce grunts out and the man in black and blue swivels around, turning his attention fully to him. “We need to talk.” That causes a reaction. Dick stands up immediately, noticing the slight waver of agitation in Bruce’s tone. He could tell, his son could always tell when something was wrong with him.

“It’s about Tim.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rotoken - One knuckle punch.
> 
> Hi, all. Hope you're enjoying it so far. Just a quick FYI, I'll be starting my last year of university soon, so updates might be pushed further out. I'll post as soon as I can, but I can't promise much.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and once again, hope you enjoy.


	5. The First Step is Always the Hardest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason Todd is on the move. One step at a time.

Cleaning his safehouse with bleach was one thing, hiding in the undercarriage of a plane next to the landing gear wearing a skin – tight wet suit was a whole other level of paranoia.

It’s cramped and musky, with the deafening sounds of the engine rattling away above his head. The smell of motor oil was prominent in the small space as a small piece of rebar that somehow always managed to find its way into his back, no matter how many times he shuffled around.

Times like these really put into perspective Jason’s life choices and how he feels like a Sim’s character.

The throwaway character everyone uses to watch them burn from a toaster or drown in the pool.

Yeah, that felt like him.

It’s safe and effective this little hideaway, but sometimes he does wish for more comfort over practicality. After being introduced into the Wayne household, Jason had come to appreciate the finer things in life.

He’s not extravagant with his choices, nothing that makes him look like another preppy rich kid with way too much time on his hands, Tim included. Jason would rather kill himself before he ever goes that far.

But it’s the little things that Jason takes comfort in that makes life enjoyable.

A comfy bed, air – conditioning unit, running water, books. Holy fuck, the books. First editions, second editions, every edition, he didn’t care. Just a good book, some delightful biscuits and a warm cup of honey saffron tea.

Not this asinine devil’s dick of a rod driving into his back.

He shuffles around once more, until he’s awkwardly curled up on the ground, as his nose just scrapes along the burnt rubbers of the landing tyres. It’s cramped and annoying and Jason just knows that his body will be stiff as a board the moment he lands, but for now it’ll do.

And it’s free, albeit illegal, so he’s not complaining much.

With his head on his backpack, earmuffs firmly lodged into his noggin and ten hours to spare, Jason begins to think about what all of this will mean for him.

This change, this path of being a new person.

For as long as he could remember, Jason hates to admit it, but he’ll always be the consolation prize. From cheap beer and no condoms, to holding a magic that was never truly his, to even not two years ago, wearing the name of the madman that killed him.

A consolation prize.

A second choice.

The second Robin, the second Red Hood, everything about him was second. And somewhere along the lines, maybe it was from Bruce’s sweet lies or Jason’s own deranged thinking, but he actually thought that the title was his, that he made it his own.

In some ways he did. The brash head – strong Robin, quipping insults with the best of them and the hope of Crime Alley, a new light for the stained name of Red Hood.

But in many ways, he didn’t. Too deluded to see the truth, to obstinate to realise that no matter how much good he did, how much effort he put in, no – one cares about the variation, just the original, always the original.

A replacement for number one.

It was dumb and foolish, but he joined the ranks of both heroes and villains as second choice, so hell bent on being number one that he had never truly went out and search for his own path, to be his own man.

For the longest of time, he had avoided this thinking, in anger but mainly in fear. Robin was just a kid, so enamoured by the bright lights and adrenaline that he didn’t think about it too much, but the Hood? That was something else entirely.

It was an obsession. To mock Joker’s existence, to remind Bruce of his greatest failure, but worst of all, it reminded Jason everyday what he should fear.

And if he had learnt _anything_ from Batman, it was that an obsession was deadly.

To Jason, the birth of Red Ronin was more than just a name to fight Batman in, it was a means to start afresh, to show the whole world that this was truly, wholly him. That this is who he was always supposed to be.

No master to hold him down, no higher power to guide his way. Red Ronin represented his choices, his decisions, his life.

Red Ronin represented Jason Todd.

The click of a mechanical latch brings him out of dreamland, as he feels a whip of air hit his face.

Slowly and robotically, the landing gear lowers – as it prepares for the runway for John F. Kennedy International Airport – letting Jason see the pristine blue of the ocean blur past underneath him.

Jason moves his body around the gaping hole, until he’s crouching over. Pulling a pony bottle out of his water proof bag – a compact bottle sized scuba tank fitted with a mouthpiece and jammed it into his mouth, slapping on a pare of tight fit goggles as well.

Freefalling from the underside of a passenger plane into the cold waters of the North Atlantic Ocean a few miles away from dry land is not an ideal adventure getaway activity.

But he jumps anyway, the wind in his hair and the roar of the engine in his ears, he falls down positioning his body to pencil dive into the cold water below.

Feet first, head last.

The momentum of the fall hitting the waves shocks him viciously as he holds his body taut and firm, sinking further and further down.

Down into the darkness, where only mermaids and corpses have ever been.

He breaths slowly, letting his heartbeat die down, sucking tiny amounts of air from his scuba tank. Small and lightweight, one of these pony bottles if used correctly, could last the wearer 30 minutes of air.

Underneath the water, away from prying eyes, he only needs 28.

It’s a lot of trouble he’s making himself go through, but at the very least it works as he doesn’t spot any flapping capes once he reaches dry land.

Soaking wet with aching muscles – he really should have stretched first – he removes the wet suit and pony bottle and throws them onto a pile in the sand.

Stark naked for all his glory to see, a small part of him was a little bit disappointed that there was no -one to witness it.

 _Pull yourself together, Todd. You’re taken._ He reprimands with a cheeky smile on his face.

Pulling spare clothes from his travel bag, Jason switches gear quickly and douses the wet equipment in gasoline, throwing the empty bottle in as well.

It burns, the smell of putrid burnt rubber fills the air, and Jason scurries away, not wanting to risk getting taken in by coast guards for public littering and unsafe fire practices.

All that work, only to be arrested for minor charges would have Talia coming for his head.

10 hours, one uncomfortable flight and Jason was back in the United States, with no – one the wiser.

He walks and walks and walks, not caring at how late it is, or how his heart is beating a little faster.

The first step of many to come, the first part of the plan achieved. He let’s himself enjoy this small victory as his legs take him further into Brooklyn.

The brickwork apartments and the smell of garbage rising into the air, yeah, he’s definitely in New York.

His heart beats a little faster as his eyes catch a glimpse of red and blue on a stack of newspapers. The Daily Planet released another article, from Lois Lane no less, and Jason’s heart stops and starts back up to life.

**_Bizarro’s Rampage Finally Ends._ **

Jason’s hands ball up in anger, seeing the image of B fighting against Superman.

His best friend, taken from him, reduced to _this._

Once an Outlaw, now an operative for the Suicide Squad.

He doesn’t hate Lois, Jason hates Bruce and Clark, but never Lois.

Reading the story, he could tell the thinly – veiled facts of heroism and appreciation she had for Biz. Deeds of good, of protecting a small child – that just happened to be in the crossfire – with his body.

Jason smiles fondly at her words. Lois Lane, the human who married a god. Tough and completely bullshit free. She, unlike her husband, doesn’t think of Batman’s words as truth. She finds her own and shows it to the world.

Someone that Jason looks up to.

Maybe someone he might even aspire to be. Investigative Journalism? Now, that’s a thought.

Jamming the news paper into a passing bin, he resumes his search, reminding himself to keep control, to go one step at a time.

His eyes scan the skyline, checking with a paper map he had prepared beforehand, until they land on the pristine, yet old architecture of Saint Pierre’s, a French inspired hotel owned by a portly man that was definitely not French.

Chiselled bannisters and stone semi – circular balconies, everything about this hotel scream ‘rich’.

Jason walked in, with his light blue long sleeve shirt and black jeans, with an air of confidence and assertiveness as if he belonged in such an establishment and made his way to the reception counter.

His eyes scanned quickly across the concierge staff members, all of them were well dressed and impeccably dignified, no doubt with years of experience under their belt. Dainty, high class and snobby as shit, something he’s seen countless times at many of Bruce’s world saving galas.

But he holds himself together, another mask, another day.

Jason’s eyes flicker between them, most of them were over 30’s, experienced and dignified, something that is needed for a high – class hotel but Jason disregards them, needing someone more… _inexperienced_ , younger, nervous even, someone that wouldn’t know if he had actually been here previously.

Jason’s eyes lit up when they fell on a fresh faced early 20’s kid, fidgeting with his cuff links, eyes darting around in agitation.

Hallmarks of a new employee.

Walking up towards the counter, with a charming grin that would put Bruce’s _Brucie_ act to shame, he leans against the counter, eyes piercing the now pale, young recruit. “Hey, there.” He greets, cheerfully. “How’s it going?”

“Oh!” The kid perks up, eyes darting around wondering why such a tall, masculine and from the looks of him, rich guy would come to the new kid. “I’m – I’m good, th-thanks.” He stumbles nervously. “How are you?”

“Good! Good.” Jason answers. “Listen…” Eyeing his name tag. “Stephen, right?” The kid nods at such a speed that Jason was worried his head would snap off. “I left one of my bags here the other night, and I was wondering if you could go into the back and fetch it for me?” He asks gently, hoping the kid was too nervous to check with his superiors.

“Oh! Um…of course.” Stephen answers readily. “Let me just take a moment Mr…” He drawls out.

“Humphrey. Lance Humphrey.” Jason replies casually, with his poshest James Bond accent, smirk falling slightly as the joke completely flies over the kid’s head, who’s whole attention was now on the screen in front of him.

The kid scrunches his brows, as if reading from the computer was the most difficult task in the world, and nods bashfully. “Okay…yes, I see that you did leave a bag here, a couple of nights ago.” He elaborates slowly. “If you could wait right there, I’ll bring you your baggage in a moment.” Stephen answers happily, maybe because he hadn’t been yelled at by a haughty douchebag with a bank account that looked like a phone number for the first time in forever.

“No worries there, bud. Take your time.” Jason answers kindly, feeling sorry for how the kid droops his shoulders in relaxation. Rich scumbags and their king of the world mentalities…yeah, Jason knew a thing or two about that.

Stephen scampers off to grab his ‘luggage’ and Jason stands idlily by taking notice of the cameras planted all around him.

It’s daring and outright insane that he looked at a tool of espionage that could easily make his life a living hell, but Jason knew full well that at this very moment, his face and paper trail was being scrubbed and wiped clean.

Turns out, the not-so Frenchman of the owner had some shady deals with the states border, hiring illegal immigrants to work as basically slave labour. With a roof over their heads and cots to their names, the bastard worked them almost to death so he could look profitable to his shareholders.

Unluckily for him, Talia was one of those shareholders.

Something along the lines of ‘encouragement’ had taken place and Talia had promised Jason the entire day’s security footage would somehow be ‘corrupted’ and ‘misplaced’, leaving no tracks that Jason was ever in New York, let alone Saint Pierre’s, to begin with.

Some persuading here, a little of money exchanging hands there, and Jason was effectively a ghost in the sea of people that passed through those doors every day.

He should be nervous, how easily this was all managed, how standing out in broad daylight is practically suicide, but then again, he had learnt how to hide from the best.

_If you need to hide something. Hide it in plain sight._

It’s daring, but it’s true.

His eyes begin to wander around, taking notice of the interior design of the hotel. The lobby was a nice blend of white marble, with a deep, rich crimson design on plush lounge chairs and a luscious greenery planted in two strips in the middle of the floor pointing towards the concierge, which was a dark oakwood that beautifully contrasted to the whites of the floor.

Contemporary with hints of classical architecture, Jason must hand it to the guy, despite what a massive dick he was, the owner sure knew his stuff.

The hotel was one thing, the residents were another.

Suits and snobby expressions galore, Jason almost reverted back to his old Crime Alley days, growling at the obscene amount of money walking in front of his eyes.

Kids, family, war vets died on the streets and here they were, with their Dolce and Gabbana handbags and Armani suits without a care in the world.

Maybe Jason was being too biased, maybe they did care, they might even be heading to their latest fundraiser for the sick and poor, but Jason had lost that hope for humanity a long time ago.

Reality was a cold, heartless bitch.

They weak die. Whilst the strong live.

The ruffle of course nylon reaches his ears and Jason turns to see poor little Stephen struggling to bring his sports bag to him. Jason almost felt sorry for the kid, watching the new recruit limp his way towards him with the weight of a small elephant on his shoulders.

With a quick decision, he makes his way over to the receptionist and gently takes the strap off the kid’s shoulders and easily hefts it over his own. Awe and shock eclipse Stephen’s face, only noticing now how Jason’s shirt was straining from the muscles it hid.

“Thanks, kid.” Jason replies happily.

“Not a fucking kid.” The kid mumbles and Jason laughs at how quickly the colour in Stephen’s face drained away. “Fuck, shit, why am I still swearing? I’m so so sorry.” He stammers out, holding his hands out in fear.

Jason chuckles fondly and ruffles the kid’s hair. “No sweat. Just between us – ” Jason leans in closer, gesturing between the two, he whispers. “I like this interaction a hell of a lot more.”

A sigh of relief is let loose and Stephen’s shoulders lower once again. “Here.” Jason states, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a couple of fifties. “It means a lot.” Pushing the small stack into Stephen’s hands.

The receptionist tries to deny such a tip, saying it was too generous, but Jason insisted. Stephen didn’t belong here, Jason could tell, not with these people. To be put down by these douchebags every day for god knows how long.

When the world keeps reminding you how worthless and incompetent you are, kicking you in the dirt about what a waste of space your life is, you eventually begin to believe it.

Jason was giving him a way out. Another dollar to his name, was another chance for him to grow.

A chance that Jason never truly had.

“Take it. I have enough as is.” Jason urges and smiles gently at the look of choked awe Stephen had staring at his hands. As quickly and as silently as possible, he crams the notes in his pockets, eyeing around hoping none of his colleagues notice.

Thankfully, no one did.

Jason thanks him once again and makes his way outside, seeing the sun peer over the skyscrapers for one last moment of light, and made his way towards the bus station, a couple of blocks away.

One single way ticket later and Jason was heading south of New York, traversing along the coastline until he hit New Brunswick. A port town sitting at the edge of the Gotham border. Just close enough to home without any unplanned late-night visits.

He hops off the bus feeling the cold air of night hit his body and Jason makes his way to a local motel located just off the highway exit. Commonly used as a pit stop for truckies and hippies a like.

It’s the type of motel that looks like it could be run by an old couple, too old to know how a computer works, still writing down admissions on paper ledgers and faxing the records to the American Association of Business Practices.

And luckily for Jason, that’s exactly what greets him at the reception office.

Two, incredibly kind folk that have seen their fair share of the world, too energetic to ever stop working, but too frail for a life of adventure. The old man is chipper and loud, slapping a bony hand on Jason’s shoulders, flashing him a toothy grin whilst the lady of the house greets him like a lost son, finally coming home.

Delicate hands hold his face, and a sweet smile that equals a thousand suns.

It’s warm, and cosy, and everything he wished he had growing up.

Grandparents…

He wonders what it would be like if Thomas and Martha Wayne never died? Would Bruce still have adopted all of them? Would they have loved them like their own flesh and blood?

Would Jason have someone else to talk to when things got tough?

It’s delicate and fragile, this sense of belonging and hopeful wish for a reset of life. Maybe they might have loved him, maybe they might not. Thomas and Martha Wayne were regarded as saints, too pure and innocent to hurt anyone, but Jason had learnt early on that Bruce is a great story teller when it came to the dead. It was his way to cope, to not lose himself in a sea of despair, where he finds no choice but to place those that have passed away on gold pedestals and retell a life they might have never had.

Maybe Jason wasn’t the only one that had a false legend made in his name. Maybe the stories he heard, were the words of a sweet child who misses his parents, so ready to ignore their flaws, so convinced they were perfect.

Another body, another myth, another lesson.

The dead should never be regarded as a lesson.

Grandparents…

No, Thomas and Martha will never love him. Not the loud – mouthed street rat who would definitely try and jack their tyres and certainly not the crime lord vigilante he inadvertently became.

They’ll smile and wave, for the cameras, but once they’re in their mansion, in the safety of the home, where the grass is definitely greener, they wouldn’t care. Why would they? They already had a flesh and blood son, who follows their every whim like gospel, who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and raised into an aristocrat of their image. So why would they care for another street rat that they pass every other day?

It was easy to know where they might stand.

Love, safety, comfort, family. They would never give him that, because Bruce won’t either.

Lies, that’s all they will ever give him. Pretty little lies, to keep his heart filled and the crowd at bay.

Jason pays for the night and the old couple happily guide him to his room, situated at the back of the complex, with a window view of the highway and a quick walk to the small garden. It’s nice and quiet, and the room itself isn’t that bad. As far as motel rooms goes, Jason’s been in worse, far _far_ worse.

Simple, clean and had all the necessities. All that Jason could ever ask for.

He thanks them immensely, and they smile sweetly at the young lad. They leave him to his devices, but not without a quick kiss on the cheek and a hearty handshake that rivaled a man 30 years his junior.

Dropping heavily onto his single size overnight bed, he looks to the ceiling feeling his body sink into the old mattress.

A family, he ponders. One without death looming over them with no prejudices of what he should be.

A useless pipe dream.

Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson, Barbara Gordon, Kate Kane and Damian Wayne.

Names that were no longer synonymous to him anymore.

Just a lifetime of blood and regret.

Jason huffs himself for acting so wishful, swinging his legs over to the side and reaching into his bag. Opening it up, he was greeted with a Christmas list worth of goodies, ranging from throwing knives to the katanas he specifically asked for.

Heated until the metal mixture turned into a crimson blood red, his four katanas radiated an eerie air of bloodlust. Straight as an arrow, without a sword guard, they were precise, sleek and incredibly deadly, two were to be strapped over his right shoulder whilst the remaining two would be sheathed to his sides, ready at a moment’s notice.

With a quick play through, Jason hummed in approval that the blacksmiths were able to add a high – pressure spring loaded ejector, capable of firing disposable antipersonnel weapons at his behest, into the hilt.

Caltrops, miniature land mines, electro shockers and poison darts were only a few things his new toys could shoot out.

Beautiful, deadly and silent.

A weapon befitting of an assassin.

Glancing back to the bag, his heart fell into a relaxed state of ease, as he pulled out the new uniform he will eventually don. Fitted exactly to his measurements, it was a blend of tri – weave Kevlar and titanium alloy armour, with skid knee pads and steel capped boots, covering every ounce of his body in a secure and tight hold.

Safe.

To protect him when no – one else can, when no – one else will.

His heart did somersaults, as he gazed onto the upper lining, seeing the body armour reach all the way up to his head, ready to be connected to his helmet.

Something Talia had added without his consent.

She didn’t need to say it, but she was worried. Worried that Bruce did not learn the first time and aim for his throat again, and maybe this time Jason might not be so lucky.

He sighs a deep regret, for life to have reached such a point that he didn’t even trust the ironclad morals of the Batman anymore.

Jason knows, in the pit of his guts, that he might die in this war. Not at the hands of an Amazon or the blast of a Green Lantern, but by the very same hands that lectured him about the value of human life.

Somewhere deep inside him, Jason knows Bruce doesn’t think of him as human anymore. Not after that night, just a zombie that needed to be eradicated for the betterment of society.

And Batman has killed zombies before.

There was no going back on both sides.

One fought for family, the other fought out of shame.

Dropping the armour back down, he picks up the final touch of his new persona.

A leather jacket, how original.

Yet, unlike his previous black or brown jackets, this one was white and didn’t have any sleeves at all with barely enough fabric to hide a few weapons.

It was dumb and maybe a bit wishful, but Jason was using it purely for aesthetic purposes, a statement of sorts.

A new man. A new hero. A new being.

Through blood, fire and brimstone the Red Hood was dead.

Through death and acceptance, Red Ronin was born.

As he gently places it back into his travel bag, Jason’s eyes trace the sleek and impressive tablet lying to the side.

This was something he had been putting off for too long.

Through his own investigations and intel Talia’s men had gathered for him, Talia had personally compiled a dossier worth of notes for him to work this case on. Fresh eyes, with personal retellings of the event, Jason would no doubt go much further than any other detective.

Turning on the tablet, his fingerprint was accepted without any problems, and a short message displayed itself, for Jason’s eyes only.

_Tayir._

_Everything that had been recorded of that fateful night is in this tablet. I must forewarn you, what you are about to witness, please do not act rashly. You have come far, and letting your emotions control you will undo everything you have strived towards._

_Keep calm, stay patient and work diligently. Only then will you accomplish what you need._

_I hope that this is enough and that I will talk to you again once this is all completed._

_Stay safe, my son._

If it wasn’t for the dark, swirl of dread churning in his guts, Jason would have smiled and whispered a quiet “thanks, mom”, but all he could think about was her warning.

He already knows a rough outline of what happened, the fire, the killings, the explosions, but for Talia to warn him to keep his anger at bay, to hold himself together when all he would likely want to do is burn Gotham to the ground meant the details were bad.

He gulped away his trepidation and continued onwards.

For a split second in time, he wished he didn’t.

Faces.

52 names and faces appeared before his very eyes and Jason felt his fingers almost digging into the carbon lining of the tablet.

Men, women, children… _fuck_ , kids were dead. All of them dead. His people, his Gotham, his kids, dead, gone, never coming back.

Dead.

Breathing heavily, trying to keep his head in the game, he clicked onto the brief summary and Jason wanted to punch something.

The corpses, the ones that still resemble a human being, were a mess. The explosions that had blown up a couple of blocks had ripped them to shreds, tearing them limb from limb, and that was only for the ones that were lucky, those that weren’t bled out from arterial blood flow, collapsing half a block away, near the very trash Gotham’s socialites once compared them to.

They watched the world die around them, as their heart began to beat slower, with only the faintest hints of adrenaline to keep them alive.

38 dead from the explosions and subsequent fire.

Jason had never hated himself more than that very moment. He could have saved them, he could have reduced the death toll, but so many things were happening at once, Jason didn’t know where to start.

His indecisiveness costed lives.

Innocent, good, hard – working lives.

His heart stuttered when he moved onto the main victims, the ones in the very centre of it all. The ones that witness the world burn around them, coughing up their lungs from the fumes, feeling their skin cook, and bubble away.

They died suffering, knowing there was no way to save them, that it was too late no matter what happened. They would die, with others begging for sweet release, and no one could get there in time.

Jason wanted to hurt, to cry, to break down Arkham’s gates and use the Joker as his own personal punching bag.

It was getting too much, the pain, the uselessness, the failure, it was all too much. He forgot how to breathe, to think.

His heart shattered as his eyes followed a set of words he wished he never saw.

_14 dead by execution._

Execution.

The coroner reported 3 bullets holes in each of the charred victims. Two from the heart, and one from the brain. Whoever did this wanted to make sure, that there would be no – one to live to tell the tale. Innocent men, women and children dead, fucking _executed_ , as they watched strangers, friends and family fall one by one.

The bullets were pulled from the ground, and judging by the angle, the gunman was staring them down, as if they were on their knees begging and crying for mercy.

Planned meticulously and cruelly, the killer had time and conviction. To pull the trigger so many times without the fear of him or the Bats meant all this was personal, a game.

People died for a fucking game.

Jason swore in that small motel room, that hell would be a welcomed escape than what he would do to the bastards responsible.

His eyes were shut tight, tears leaking through because they were good people. People that had every right to live and someone took that away from them. Kids with futures and dreams were gone, **_gone_** , families, loved ones, people who just wanted to live, to love, to grow just… _gone._

He failed them.

Protector of Crime Alley and he failed them.

With heavy gulps, he swallowed his heartache away, and pushed through. He might not have saved them, but he was damn sure to avenge them.

A video opened up, a dark blue screen with grid lines etched across it. Jason knew immediately that is was a rendered image of the bullets extracted from the crime scene.

From the fragments, GCPD, Batman, literally every enforcement agency on the planet managed to extrapolate an image through a digital scan. The process was slow and meandering, but Jason won’t deny the benefits it had.

It’s a wonder how far technology has progressed, where once upon a time good-ol’-detective work consisted of door-to-door knocks and wanted posters. Now, there was 3D imaging and holographic re-enactments of crime scenes.

Truly a whole new world of possibilities.

It’s was one of the most painful reminders of his life, coming back that is. Adjusting back into this world, with holograms and portals kept reminding him he didn’t belong. A relic that should have stayed buried, a past that had no place in the future. He changed and adapted but it never felt the same, never felt like it was him, as he played catch up with the others, and it hurt how often they kept reminding him.

A glorified case, a symbol of what he shouldn’t be, dressed up as this bogeyman for those who step out into war. An entire family, growing day by day, shows how small and insignificant he is.

And he doesn’t blame them for moving on, for wanting to have their own life. But did they have to move on so quickly? He wasn’t even gone for that long, but the world forgot about him, moving on and never looking back.

Just a bad memory of a bad kid.

Everything moved on too quickly. Just like him, plastic explosives and a Chevy Impalas were things of the past.

A deep, crevice of his heart knew that was why he hated Tim so much. Sure, seeing a kid hold the magic he once cherished hurt, and looking at the smile that he once wore crippled him, but it was Tim. Smart, analytical, resourceful, whizz kid Tim. The next Batman.

It made Jason feel inferior in every way. Tim was everything he wasn’t. Everything Batman wanted.

So, he vented, he hurt, he hunted, to numb that gaping hole where his heart once was. Easing the pain of betrayal that swallowed him whole, crushing him, suffocating him.

But they got better. Better allies. Better acquaintances. Better friends. And eventually better brothers.

Yet, that sting never left him. Because looking at Tim reminded him that he will always be the backup, the second string, the extra muscle. Never the real deal. Just a bad memory wearing someone else’s name.

Jason sighed deeply, his mind aching at the memory, but for some reason, his heart felt soothed by a simple fact that he fought against for most of his life.

He’ll never be what they want him to be.

And for the first time in a long time. He doesn’t care.

He improves because he’s doing it for himself, not for Batman.

He becomes better because it’s his life, not Bruce’s.

It was slow, mind – numbing, painstakingly annoying and devastatingly frustrating but he got better. Better at fighting, better at spying, better at hacking, better at everything. Because for the first time in a long time, he’s doing it for himself.

A warmth spreads over his already aching heart, a feeling long forgotten of better times, of a red – headed woman he loved with all his heart.

Faint kisses and warm hearts. Hopeful times and wilful smiles.

He’s proud of himself. Proud of what he’s achieved and proud of what he can do.

And this…this is something he can do.

Focusing his head back into the game, watching the video showing the transition from a collapsed round to its original prime, Jason’s heart stuttered.

A bullet can say a lot about a killer. The average 9mm round purchased at the local Homeart meant that you were dealing with your run of the mill rent-a-thug. So cock sure, with a micro – penis to match that they don’t realise how easily traceable stock brand rounds are.

All types of people buy different rounds for different circumstances. A .22 were for home security, small, silent but packs just enough damage for any intruders that make their way into homes late at night.

It makes the owners feel safe, and secure, as if the world couldn’t touch them, but held only enough penetration power that it doesn’t go through a scumbag’s brains into the neighbour’s dog five houses down.

A .50 cal were for those who can be considered… _special_. Without the necessary training, they could even be labelled as mentally retarded.

Big, loud and dumb.

So stupid and so insecure to look strong and masculine that they end up dislocating their shoulder or smashing their nose to bits from the recoil alone. Jason has seen it before, when he first learned how to fire a rifle. Fresh faced kids who want to look cool grabbing the biggest gun they could find only to be wheeled to the hospital for shoulder realignment.

And that’s not even talking about the hearing problems…. or the friendly fire.

So many idiots.

But custom rounds? Those were meant for professionals. Deadshot level pros with the kills to match. Made to specifications, these babies add a uniqueness unlike conventional store – bought brands couldn’t.

Sleek and slender rounds were designed for longer range targets, to go outside the maximum the gun could normally handle. Terrifyingly precise, soaring through the sky ignoring the wind barrier and hitting its target with only a millimetre deviation.

A marksman’s type of round.

Whilst short and stubby rounds, with a compounded ribbed casing were for those who liked to get up close and personal. Favouring its ability to rip through arteries and watch the blood spray all over the walls.

Favoured by shotgun enthusiast and sociopaths.

And the best part was that they were untraceable. No factory to link it to, no source to buy it from, custom made rounds were a killer’s wet dream.

Just a corpse with a hole.

A bullet says a lot, and this one was telling Jason everything.

The spiral grip on the casing to increase bullet spin, the mix of lead and carburised steel for added penetration and the primer holding a unique blend of Arabian black gunpowder and traces of thermite for that extra kick told a million stories.

Robust, sleek, and incredibly deadly. A perfect blend for long range marksmanship and close combat, interchangeable into any weapon.

This is what 9mm rounds wish they could be.

And Jason’s eyes widened in horror because he knows these rounds well. He knows how well he can see his reflection on the polished edge, how the copper rim glows a faint orange under fluorescent light and how it weighs in his hands.

And the thing was, Jason wasn’t the only one that knows the workings of this bullet.

Bruce has seen them before.

Tim has seen it before.

Talia has seen it before, and now no doubt, the entire world.

Slowly, the vines of truth begin to unravel. Why everyone seems so sure, so resolute that he did the deed. Why he’s now the League’s most wanted criminal. Why it’s now Jason against the world.

Jason knows it personally.

Because he made them.


	6. Family Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talking does wonders. It's baffling why the Waynes don't do it more often.

An unearthly noise echoed within the darkness, a pained and angry rumbling vibrated through the halls, echoing into the night.

A bang erupted further in the unknown.

_Bang – bang – bang – bang._

Over and over again, reverberating throughout the home. Deafening and absolute, it consumed the distant sounds of Gotham, sirens and everything.

The source?

A tired Tim bashing his head into his desk out of frustration.

Losing his only lead was detrimental to him. It was the only viable source he had and upon the Batman’s interference, he was berated by every member for being capricious with his safety. Nightwing and Batman had run out into Crime Alley after the incident, but they had nothing to show for it. The Red Hood’s slinked away into hiding only popping up to do their daily rounds.

Thomas Grant turned into a ghost and that left Tim with nothing.

Absolutely fuck all.

So he had no choice but to go back to sifting through the channels looking for Jason, and he quietly promised himself that if he ever found Jason, he was going to slap the bastard.

Deathstroke was easier to find than this.

Tim didn’t know how many times he had re – read Jason’s file and tried to link it to any rumours floating about. Shootings, police reports, civilian sightings, and he had nothing to show for it.

Tim thought back to the times that they had found _something_. A few months after Jason’s escape, enough time for him to heal, Jason’s old safehouses around the world simultaneously blew up.

Tim understood that it was Jason’s way of covering his tracks, leaving no chance for the Bats to find him but there were less conspicuous ways of destroying information than having the entire world watch apartments light up in pillars of flame.

The Justice League – Bruce – immediately labelled the Red Hood as the bomber and that propelled the outlaw’s name onto every law enforcement agency’s number one most wanted. They never revealed Jason’s identity, in fear that it would link it back to Bruce, simply labelling him as John Doe.

It was their biggest fear, that someone other than the Justice League would catch him, and out of desperation, he would bargain a deal.

Despite his already horrible standing with the hero community before he was outcasted, Jason stored a plethora of information in his head. Names, faces, powers, he knew it all and it terrified them. But more importantly, Jason knew their loved ones. Lois Lane, Iris West, Jim Gordon, and many others were all at threat.

Their lives dangling in Jason’s hands.

Tim groaned once again, because everything was being complicated to an unnecessary degree. Compounded into black and white. Two sides, with no room for negotiation and Tim hated it because it defiled everything a detective stood for.

Information. Understanding. Context. Background. Motive.

It was all being thrown out the window and Tim couldn’t do anything about it.

He looked back at old reports, at the only confirmed sightings they had and felt…useless, there was no other word to describe it.

Maybe it was pure luck that they had even found him. Relying on whispers and the odd faulty camera to track him down.

Monte Carlo, Shenzhen, Iraq, Yemen.

The only known locations that placed Jason Todd on any map on the world. As if he was pure magic, popping up like smoke in one area only to fly away in the wind the moment the League caught on.

Rich cities, poor villages, mountain ranges and seaside towns. Erratic and unpredictable.

Tim knew Jason was good.

At one point in time, he _was_ Robin.

But this was a whole other level. Inconsistent and elusive, Jason navigated the world barely leaving any tracks for them to follow.

It was inspiring and terrifying how good he was at hiding his tracks. There was no pattern, no comfort he would rely on. For months, they had relied on known connections and aliases, even going as far as interrogating Talia but it was all for naught.

Talia had admitted that she played a hand in his recovery but after that let him loose upon the world and Bruce looked like a caged animal ready to strike.

They followed old haunts, met with known contacts, basing it off Jason’s particular M.O to track him down, waiting for that inevitable gunshot, for when Jason got too brash, too cocky, coming back to Gotham guns blazing.

So, they kept waiting and waiting, searching through his known locations, a sign that he was out there.

But nothing.

De nada.

Zilch.

Once again, it seemed like they kept underestimating him. Referring him as the ‘Failure Robin’, thinking he would fall back on familiar patterns and a sense of ease, but Jason showed them how far he could go.

Maybe it was the streets in his blood or the experienced he had amassed travelling the globe, more so than any of the others, but Jason navigated the world as if it was his own backstreets.

Little nick – knacks and secret tunnels found days, if not weeks, after Jason disappeared. Corner stores and uptown apartments claiming they saw a ghost flying through the night. Gangs and empires roughed and shaken to it’s core by the Justice League, saying they have never heard of such a man.

Shapeless and unpredictable.

Because how can you grab smoke?

No pattern, no link, no presence.

He was ethereal in every way, a ghost that walks. Tim chuckled, knowing Jason would probably laugh at such a metaphor with his dead jokes and all.

It was only a year after his escape that they finally had a confirmed sighting. Out of pure luck, with no detective work involved, just two people at the wrong place, at the right time.

Nepal.

An avalanche had come down one of the mountains, covering almost an entire village. Families, loved ones, innocent people trapped within their homes and Superman had tasked himself to come and help.

In amidst the confusion, in amidst the cries, there he was, Jason Todd, the Justice League’s most wanted shovelling snow with a mighty intensity, practically clawing his way to create a path of salvation for those inside and Clark just couldn’t believe his luck.

However, Jason could believe his or severe lack thereof.

The trapped residents got out, thankfully, hugging their saviour tightly with tear filled eyes, but Jason only had eyes on Clark.

Shock, maybe even fear entrenched him, and the world stopped.

From the reports, Jason’s heartbeat had spiked, and his breathing became laboured. It was only a second, a second of realisation and dawning did Jason finally act, running at full speed to his safehouse and grabbing his gear.

But human legs couldn’t compare to Kryptonian flight.

Blasting those old, mud – brick walls, Superman hovered above the League’s most wanted criminal and shot a fiery beam hoping to incapacity and eventually apprehend.

Jason had lunged out of the way but was too late as the laser pierced through his stomach, below his right floating ribs.

The smell of lucid iron and the foul stench of burnt human skin filled the air, putrid in all the wrong ways but Jason was a Bat, filled with stubbornness and spite, he pushed on, running towards a snowmobile he had hidden underneath a white tarp out the back and high tailed it out of there.

Apparently, Clark was about to pursue but was hit dead centre in the back of the head by a hefty snowball.

Turning around, the small town of frightened and frail Nepali stood firm, snowballs and shovels in hand at the so-called hero that just harmed their saviour.

Clark hovered there shocked, as he was used to being praised for his efforts, regarded and treated as a hero.

Never before has he been shunned for hunting a criminal, but he couldn’t deny his eyes, as they fell on the two Nepali citizens standing in the middle of the hoard.

A child and his mother alive, from the acts of one man.

Tear – stained faces, but with harden eyes, the child drew his hand back once more and hurled another, this time with a rock inside.

It missed.

But his mother’s didn’t.

And soon after, so did the entire village.

God, did the Nepalese hate Superman that day.

After a small tussle, Clark gave up trying to calm them down and sped away, following the snow trail until it led to an abandoned snowmobile in the alps.

But there were no footprints, no blood trail. Just the snowy plains of Nepal and a very confused Superman.

Clark had searched for that erratic heartbeat once again and was astonished when he had heard nothing from a mile radius.

Then two.

Then three.

But nothing. Just wild animals and the creaks and groans of frost covered trees.

X – Ray vision didn’t help either and Clark was left there soaring above Nepal for a trace, a hint, a clue as to where Jason had gone.

He eventually had to call the League for help, and they had scoured those mountains for days, even going as far as interrogating the very same citizens Jason saved, as if they were criminals to prosecute.

Yet, they still had nothing for it.

Bruce had become particularly broody for the days that followed.

From that point on, _nothing_. As if Jason Todd never existed, his presence disappeared from all channels.

Nepal was the last confirmed sighting of one Jason Todd.

From then on, all traces had disappeared. The whispers died out, and the tech didn’t fare any better.

Little by little, Jason got better. He learned and adapted leaving the Justice League to twiddle their thumbs in frustration.

And in the midst of all this brooding, among the pools of frustration, did Tim finally admit something that he was too terrified accept for the longest of times.

In all the years Jason came back, from the bloodstained streets as the Red Hood to the family bickering as Jason Todd, through the heartaches, the fights, the betrayals, Jason gave them a chance, a way of reconnection.

It was a fine string of hope, to reconnect, to make up and be a family again.

Through the crying, the anger, the screaming and the punching, Jason held on to this infinitesimally small chance, living on this want to be a family again.

At every turn, in fear of prison or one of Dick’s octopus hugs, Jason had let them find him.

But now?

That string was severed.

Cut by the very hands that preached about the values of family and love.

Burned by the same father that mourned for his death.

It was gone and with it, Jason.

Tim’s head fell into his hands, rubbing his eyes awake, a sense of futility surrounding him. Jason was many things. Angry, volatile, murderous were some of the words Batman would describe him.

But very few knew about the finer details of the estranged Robin. Smart, gifted, compassionate, but most importantly, often forgotten and drowned in blood, was that Jason Todd was hopeful.

Someone with such bloodied hands as his wouldn’t do what he does, fighting for the weak, in the worst places in the world, and not have hope guiding them.

Hope guided him to become Robin.

Hope was his muddled message as the Red Hood.

And hope was his salvation and key to have a family.

For that hope to disappear, untraceable and non-existent in nature, meant that Jason was done, with no further chances. A chasm of empty promises and broken hearts.

Jason had lost hope in Bruce being his father.

Jason had lost hope in having a family.

And there was nothing worse than a man that had lost hope.

If Jason and the Outlaws were innocent, there was no way the Waynes could ever get him back.

They would chase him down, they always do, ignoring Jason’s pleas, saying how they’re family, and that they’re sorry, but Jason won’t listen, he doesn’t have a reason to. It would be biblical his reaction, rage incarnate, for intruding into his life, his _new_ life, with expectations that they have a right to be a father or a brother.

And Tim didn’t know who to side with.

He wanted it, by god did he want Jason to be a part of the family again. For family nights to be complete, for patrols to be fun and loud, for them just being … _them_.

But this is Jason. The boy who died, the hero he looked up to, the man who tried to kill him and the brother that would die for him.

The hero who lost everything and somehow kept losing. His mother, his father, his life, his best friend and now Bruce.

Jason keeps losing everything and Tim, more than the want to be a family, more than the desire to be with his brother, just wanted Jason to be happy. Because Jason deserved to be happy, and if that meant never seeing him again, Tim would do it.

For Jason.

_Knock – Knock._

The rhythmic tapping against his apartment door had him confused.

Tim crunched his brows, because he definitely didn’t place an order for any take – out and the only friends he had that would pop up unannounced were either in San Francisco or was job hunting wearing at least one purple article of clothing.

Moving apprehensively to the main entrance door, Tim pulled a batarang from a hidden compartment in the hallway and tip – toed gently over.

His mind raced thinking who it could be. It couldn’t be Bruce; the man didn’t know a thing about household curtesy.

Was Ras on the move again? He always did love his theatrics. Standing out in the open of the very man he has been trying to recruit for years would certainly do it.

Turns out, Tim was wrong.

Standing there, exactly 6-foot-tall, was his older brother carrying what looked like several bags of groceries. “Hey, Tim.” The older man shined that bright Robin smile, pushing his way in, like it was a second home.

“Dick?” He followed the first Robin into his kitchen. “What are you doing here?”

“Can’t I check in on my little brother?” Another flash of pearly whites, as he busied himself pulling out groceries from the bags.

“I mean…you can – wait!” Tim ordered, confused. “What’s all this?”

“Groceries.” As if that explained everything.

“I can see that. I mean, why are they here? I can buy them myself, hell, there’s an app to get someone else to buy it for me.” Because this was too convenient. Dick showing up with groceries on hand for the first time in months, right after Tim’s little field trip to the slums?

Yeah, this reeked of Bruce.

“Bruce sent you here, didn’t he?” Tim deadpanned, crossing his arms in defiance.

Dick stopped momentarily, staring at the bags on the kitchen table. “Bruce may have put his two – cents in…” He trailed out. “But it was all Alfred’s idea to bring the groceries.” He smirked hopefully.

And Tim was having none of that.

“Cool, thanks.” He dismisses. “Tell them I’m fine and then you can go back to hanging out with the brat or Barbara.”

Dick’s face fell, seeing the distance Tim was trying to create. “I didn’t come here because I was ordered to, Timmy.” He explained softly. “I know we haven’t hung out as much as I would have liked – so this is me – trying to hang out.”

“And you just so happen to magically decide to come right after my failed op in the Alley.” Dick flinched at the reasoning, feeling shitty that Tim hit the mark dead centre.

“I know it’s not ideal timing, and yes, I won’t deny that you – by yourself with no gear – in Crime Alley wasn’t a reason why I came, but…” His face scrunched together, forming his words carefully. “But I figured, with everything that’s going on, that you would need some company.”

Tim held his stance, eyes firm as he cautiously went over his words. Because despite how emotional and absolute Dick was in wanting to bond, it is incredibly shitty of the man to pop by because he deemed Tim to be having an ‘emotional meltdown’.

But it was hard to deny Dick when he had _that_ face on.

Soft voice, droopy lip and big, bulbous eyes.

The man was a puppy dog in human form and damn was Tim’s willpower failing him.

“Fine.” He sighed, moving around the kitchen table and helped Dick arrange the rest of the produce. “Did you at least buy me some coffee?”

“Alfred gave me very specific instructions to not buy you any.” Dick said, with a wide grin on his face. “But then again, rules are meant to be broken.” Pulling out a jar of caffeinated goodness.

Tim chuckled at the sight, peering over to his bigger brother with a raised eyebrow. “You know he’s going to have your ass when he finds out, right?”

“ _If,_ he finds out, Timothy.”

Tim scoffed at Dick’s blatant lack of self – preservation. “ _When_ , Dick. Alfred knows everything.”

Words to live by in the Wayne household.

Dick nodded meekly at the statement. “Are we sure Bruce is the world’s greatest detective?” He asked. “Cause if Alfred is the Batman’s Batman, what does that make him?”

“A god.” Because like it or not, in all the years they had lived with the older gentleman, no matter how hard they tried, nothing could get past him.

Dick laughed out loud in agreement.

A sense of danger travelled up Tim’s spine as he watched the first Robin pull out pots and pans from his pantry. “Um…Dick? What are you doing?”

“Hm?” The man whirled around. “What does it look like? I’m cooking us some dinner.”

“You? Since when do you cook?” A puzzled expression found it’s way onto Tim’s face. “Last time I saw you try to cook, Alfred permanently banned you from the kitchen.”

“That was _one_ time, Timmy.” Dick whined, pouting at the mention of that disaster. “I’ll have you know, I’ve been practising a lot. At first, I did it to woo Barbara, and after a while she began to dig it, so I kept on learning. I gotta say, Timmy, I’m a pretty good chef.” Dick huffed proudly, grinning from ear to ear.

Tim’s eyes flickered between Dick’s smiling face and his kitchen cooktop in fear. “If you burn my apartment down…”

“One fire and all of the sudden you’re the worst cook in the world.” Dick grumbled under his breath. Shaking away the displeasure, he asked. “So, what do you want to have?”

“Beef Bourguignon.” An automatic response that he had no control over.

“Beef Bour…what?”

Tim paled, internally slapping himself. He shook his head, trying to steer the conversation away. “Sorry, it’s a little too advanced for you. Don’t worry about it.”

“Hey, Tim.” Dick urged, sensing the nervousness. “You don’t have to apologize. I just never heard you ask that before.”

“Yeah – ” Tim drawled out. “Sorry, this little arrangement reminds me too much of…”

He never finished the sentence but judging by the pained look on Dick’s face, he didn’t need to.

“Oh…right. Yeah, no biggie.” Dick shrugged, trying to look casual. “I guess, I could cook you some pasta?”

“Yeah…that wo – that would be nice.” Tim admitted, hating himself for letting that slip.

A few minutes later, with two plates stacked high with a simple tomato and beef sauce ragu and packaged pasta, the two found their way into Tim’s living room, settling themselves onto the couch.

Dick scrunched his nose in disgust, peering at the state of the room.

‘Living’ room was too nice of a word to describe this. “When was the last time you cleaned?” Dick asked, breaking themselves out of the silence.

Tim balled into himself a bit, a little bashful and sheepish. “Would you believe me if I said…that this was here before I locked myself into my room?”

The first Robin’s jaw dropped. Turning his head – unbearably slowly – towards the younger man, it looked like his eyes were going to pop out of his head. “I thought I was bad.”

Tim meekly chuckled at the statement and took a quick bite of his pasta. “This is great, Dick.” Avoiding the conversation and hiding his shame.

Dick merely huffed a laugh, but let it slide for now.

Some food and sleep would do Tim wonders. They could hold off in the cleaning for later.

“Thanks, little bird.” Ruffling his younger brother’s hair, failing to see the way Tim stiffened at the name.

The two fell into a comfortable peace, with only the clinks of forks on plates to be heard.

Of course, in their lives, peace was a momentary thing.

“Ask your question, Dick. I know it’s killing you to hold back.” Tim’s words cut through the calm with a deadly air.

Dick sighed in defeat, lowering his fork down. “How are you, Tim? With everything?” A serious, yet soft tone in his voice.

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

A weak answer. One that didn’t explain anything.

“I’m being serious, Tim. You’re being distant with everyone. None of us have seen you at the Manor in months. It’s always the cave.” Dick explained, shuffling closer. “How are you?” He asks again.

“I’m fine, Dick. Don’t worry about it.” Tim dismisses, going back to his plate of pasta.

Dick sits there seeing so much of Bruce in his little brother than he’s comfortable with. They were the worst at it, whenever something goes wrong, they internalise it, departmentalise and hopefully rationalise this thing called ‘emotion’.

It happened when Tim’s best friend died, Conner, and the kid cut everyone out of his life, going on a journey to better himself leaving his friends behind when they needed him. It wasn’t his finest moment, and his team did not appreciate any of it, but they warmed up, taught him to be better, more open.

But that coldness was always there, alone and afraid of everything going wrong.

No – one likes to talk about it – a common tactic they had in their family – but each one of the Bats silently agree that they wanted nothing to do with the mantle. A lonely and dark existence. They never said it, how it changes them, corrupts them, destroying lives and friendships.

They were terrified that it would turn them into Bruce.

And sitting there, in that mess of an apartment, Dick saw the signs on his little brother.

This case was turning into an obsession.

“Talk to me, Tim.” Dick urges, placing his plate down on the table and turning his full attention on the younger man. “From ground zero.”

Because that’s what his brother needed. An outlet. A person that would sit there and listen.

A brother.

Tim eyed the man accusingly, and maybe it was harsh that he held such animosity to him, that he only acts like a brother when something goes wrong, because this – right here, right now – was the first time in months Dick has done anything close to brotherly bonding.

Just the two of them.

And Tim would be lying if he said he didn’t miss it.

Caving in, Tim sighed, placing his plate down. “We don’t know much of that night, Dick.” He started off, staring into the far wall. “The fire, the explosions, the shootings. It was all too sudden, too abrupt for us to accuse anyone. We were all too busy trying to mitigate the damage, reduce causalities and all the sudden we decided that Jason did it? It doesn’t add up.”

“Then what about the bullets? And the witness that stated Hood was there?” Dick pointed out, feeling a sensation claw at his throat.

“The bullets that we pulled _after_ you dragged him to Arkham? And the witness testimony of a small girl that cried out ‘ _Hood’_?” Tim deadpanned and Dick felt as if someone punched him in the stomach. “At the time, it was all circumstantial – at best – and there were reports and sightings of Artemis and Bizarro helping evacuate civilians away from the fires. Why would they go through all that trouble if they did commit the crime? Why wouldn’t they just go on the run immediately? By the time we got there, they could have been halfway to Mexico and the body – count would be much higher.”

“To keep up appearances.” Dick immediately answered. “The Hood had appointed himself as the sole protector of the Alley, and this way, it would have been easier for him to have the backing of the Narrows when we started asking questions.”

“But we didn’t, did we?” Tim argued back and that made Dick feel like garbage. “You literally said it yourself, Jason is regarded as Crime Alley’s protector and that the witness – the little girl – was crying out his name. It’s pretty self – explanatory. She wanted to be safe, to _feel_ safe, and with her parents burning to a crisp she sought out the only other name that could protect her and keep her safe; The Red Hood.”

“But we asked her ourselves who did it and she answered; Hood.”

“Because she was in a state of shock.” Tim exclaimed, throwing up his hands. “It has been drilled into our heads since day one that intel gathered from a distressed witness can be deemed unreliable and shouldn’t be used as solid evidence. _He_ taught us that, but when the moment arrived, he threw away all of his teachings and went after his own son. That’s not detective work, Dick.”

“Then what about the escape?” Dick argued, because the evidence was piled high and Tim was ignoring all of it. “Hood planted the bomb in advance knowing there was a possibility he would be brought in.”

Tim did not miss throughout the entire discussion, how Dick kept referring to Jason as 'The Hood'. “Do you want to go and live in Arkham?”

Dick blanked at the question, remembering the first time he had dragged Jason there himself. He scowled at the implication. “It was for his own good.”

Tim scoffed. “ _His_ good or _your_ good?”

Dick felt his lungs crush under the implication. That he was sweeping it all under the rug, not caring about what would happen. “Arkham has the best doctors in the entire country, Tim.” Soothing the fire in his brother’s eyes. “I know none of us know a damn thing about mental health – brightly coloured costumes and all – but it doesn’t mean we don’t try.”

“And look what happened the last time we did that?” Tim argued. “I still have a batarang scar on my chest because of the ‘help’ we gave him.”

Dick flinched, remembering Tim’s body lying on the ground. The rusty blade lodged precariously in his little brother.

Hood did that.

And Tim was defending him?

A hush swept over them, lingering its cold touch all around them.

Tim sighed once again. “I don’t want to fight with you on this, Dick. Having Bruce breathe down my neck is frustrating, as is.”

Dick’s eyes twitched at the mention of their father. “You know he’s doing it because he cares.”

Tim stayed still for a bit, only moving to rub the tiredness out of his eyes. “I know. It’s basically our family motto; _We stalk because we care_.” Dick chuckled at that, feeling the tension lift from his shoulders. “But it’s more than that, Dick. He’s questioning everything I do, both in vigilantism and actual work. Tam’s running out of excuses whenever he calls.” Slumping his head back into the couch, Tim’s eyes were glassy and unfocused as it stared to the ceiling. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was trying to hack my computer right now.” Tim jerked a thumb towards his study.

Dick cringed a little, knowing full well that was exactly what Bruce was doing.

“I know Bruce isn’t the most comforting of adults – ” Dick pointed out, smirking a little at how Tim scoffed. “An understatement, I know. But he’s always been there for us, even when we didn’t want him to.”

“But I didn’t need him that night, Dick. It’s not a simple matter of wanting Bruce away from my investigation, I just didn’t _need_ him to be around and question everything I do.”

Tim loves his older brother, he truly does, but if there was one thing he hated about the first Robin was his ability to guilt – trip people into doing what he wants.

And damn, were those puppy dog eyes hitting him hard.

“Tim…” A whine echoed out. “I get that you're mad at Bruce, but this isn’t healthy. Tam called me and said she’s become more of a barista than an actual secretary. We’re all worried about you.”

“Who?” Tim counters. “Bruce? Yeah, right.” He drawled. “He’s not worried about me, he’s worried that I’m not listening to orders. He’s worried that I’ll turn into another _Jason._ ” He air – quoted mockingly.

Tim wasn’t bothered by the way Dick stiffened beside him. “Look. I get it, Dick. He’s our dad. We all signed the adoption papers.” Tim points out and Dick tersely nods in understanding. “We all knew what we were getting into when we declared ourselves as Waynes, but…” He trailed off, wondering how quick and painless he could make this.

“But?” Dick’s voice was wobbly and not at all inquisitive.

“But is he our dad?” And that rocked Dick’s world to its core. “We’re not a functional family, Dick. None of us are, especially Bruce. It sounds great on paper, having that name, that legacy, that bond and claiming it as our own – but in reality – we’re barely a family.”

“Tim – ”

The glare he received shut him up quickly. “You said you wanted to listen.” Dick flinched at the coldness in his voice. “Are you going to listen or are you going to keep shoving your side of the story in, not caring about mine?”

And that hurt Dick more than he thought it would. The implication that he would do it so readily? That he wants everything to go his way and not listen to anything else? Was this what his friends and family felt of him?

Slowly, and apprehensively, Dick nodded, urging Tim to continue.

Tim sighed, sinking further into the seat. The bowl of pasta forgotten on the coffee table. “He’s our dad, and we call him that, but the problem is, with all his promises of love and family, with all the heartfelt moments and poor attempts at bonding, he’s not a good dad. He tries at least, and he’s done a lot for me – I won’t ever deny that – but each and every time we place such expectations on him, all we get is disappointment.”

Dick winced at the monotone voice his younger brother held.

“It’s always the same thing, how he uses the excuse of being emotional incompetent to brush away the fact that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. That he’s still that lonely kid who’s lost his parents and doesn’t know how to deal with it. Bruce with all his plans, all of his knowledge and resources doesn’t know how to be human, so instead he dresses up as a Bat and beats people up at night, and that’s the problem, Dick.” Tim’s eyes managed to find their way into Dick’s – cold and analytical – sending chills down Dick’s spine. “Bruce puts the Batman above all else.”

Dick sat there, stunned, at how Tim placed everything into words. He had always known Bruce wasn’t well – equipped to handle parenthood, that he wasn’t the most emotionally opening guy out there.

It was the main reason why Dick ran off to Bludhaven in the first place. He couldn’t take the one – sided arguments anymore, and how Bruce tried to control everything because the man couldn’t function without control.

Teenage Dick didn’t know that. But adult Dick does.

It took a few years, but he had finally understood. Bruce didn’t know how to process emotions. It couldn’t be catalogued, categorised and filed away for a later notice, but damn did the man certainly try.

But for Tim to say that Bruce only cares about the Bat? That the legacy Bruce had created was more important than anything else in his life? That left Dick’s heart bleeding.

“It’s why Selina left him at the altar.”

Dick blanked at the statement.

“That’s not true, Tim.” He tried to debate. But if the unimpressed eyebrow on his brother’s face said anything, it was that Tim didn’t agree.

“You know when Jason first came back.” Dick’s heart started to beat erratically in his chest. “I hacked the cave’s camera logs after him and Bruce’s big stand – off and do you know what I heard?” His eyes were glassy, cold and emotionless. Something Dick never wished to see in Tim ever again.

“When Bruce found out it was Jason, when he came back to the cave and Alfred asked him what he was going to do. Do you know what he said? He said; _“This changes nothing”_.” Tim’s face crunched in disgust at the memory. “He found out Jason, the son that he had mourned and cried for, was alive and he swept it under the rug like it was nothing. And I get it, I really do, Jason was killing people, hell, he even tried to kill me, but he was hurt, scared and alone and all he wanted was for Bruce to say that he loved him. And the man did nothing. He put Batman above all else, above a traumatised kid, _his_ traumatised kid and expected Jason to just hop back in line and follow his orders again.”

Dick wanted him to stop talking. To deny that Bruce would ever do such a thing.

“And he’s done it with the rest of us as well, Dick.” A knife somehow managed to find its way into his heart, twisting it’s tip deeper. “Whenever a crisis comes along, Bruce regresses and puts on Batman, his comfort blanket, and takes it out on us.”

“But he’s mourning Tim.” Dick urges. “He doesn’t know how to process it, so he lashes out, we all do.”

Dick cringed at how weak of an argument that was.

“And after the crisis is resolved, when everything is back to the way it is, tell me Dick, what does he do?” Tim’s voice cut through Dick’s resolve. “Nothing. He doesn’t apologise, he doesn’t make amends, he moves on and on rare occasions blames it on us. That’s not what a father is, Dick.”

That broke Dick in ways he never could have imagined.

Tim stared deeply into Dick, eventually sighing and lounging himself onto the soft comfort of his couch. “Bruce is great, and being Batman’s partner is also great, but…” He trailed off, not wanting to go any further.

“But there comes a time when Batman isn’t enough.” Dick finished for him and Tim’s eyes widened in response.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that!” Dick quips. “You’re forgetting who you’re talking to.”

“I guess I’m pulling a _you_.” Tim joked, but the wistfulness in his eyes said otherwise.

Dick burst out laughing, glad that the tension in the air was disappearing. “I guess you are. Everyone goes through a rebellious phase at least once in their life.”

So enamoured in his joy, Dick didn’t notice the way Tim’s eye twitched at the statement. “Yeah…” Tim recited, almost brokenly. “A phase.”

Blinded by hope, Dick pulled Tim into a side – arm hug and Tim was too tired to fight back. “We’ll figure this out, little bro. We always do.”

The encouragement, as heartfelt as it was, was white noise in an empty room.

Tim stayed there for a bit, the warmth of Dick’s body made his eyes feel drowsy and heavy. When was the last time he slept?

“Hey, Tim?” Dick nudged his shoulder.

“Hm?” A sound escaped Tim’s lips without his consent.

“How are you and Steph going?”

Tim groaned in annoyance, pushing away from Dick’s infamous octopus hugs, but he still hadn’t learned his lesson that no – one could escape one of those. “Oh my god!” He whined. “Kill me now!”

“Nu – uh.” Dick tutted, a wide smile plastered onto his face. “We don’t kill in this family.”

“No, but you’re awfully enthusiastic in torturing me for details about my love life.” Tim tried to clamber out, only for Dick to spin him onto his back and wrap his arms around his chest tightly. “Let go, Dick.” He laughed out.

“Never!”

Somehow, Tim’s head managed to slip down and lie itself on Dick’s lap. “Why are you so interested in my love life?” He questioned. “You and Barbara losing your touch?” He jabbed and watched as Dick’s face lit up in smugness.

“For your information. We are going great!” He exclaimed, joy just exuding off him. “Kicking ass and kissing ass, everything is amazing.” He chirped.

Tim’s face scrunched up at that mental image. “Ew!” He whined. “Too much information.”

“Aw, come on, little bro. Just because you don’t get any action doesn’t mean I can’t retell stories of mine.” He triumphantly explained and Tim merely rolled his eyes in mirth.

“Hey! Jason’s the only one that’s allowed to joke about my sex life.” He laughed, not noticing the way Dick tensed up at the acknowledgement.

“Yeah…sorry.” Dick quietly caved.

The two stayed in comfortable silence, with only the distant sounds of Gotham city echoing through the night to keep them company. Absentmindedly, Dick began stroking Tim’s hair and the little brother hummed in approval, snuggling closer.

Something in Dick cracks trying to think back about the last time the two had hung out. Just the two of them, no mission, no costumes, no crisis that forced them together. Dick hated himself for pushing something like this away for something ‘more important’.

Was this why Tim sought out Jason? Was he that shitty of an older brother that little Timothy found companionship with Jason? The murderer?

A Jason that could apparently cook exotic food and joke about Tim’s love life. A Jason that had crawled his way into Tim’s heart because Dick couldn’t step up and be a brother he promised to be.

A darkness swirls inside of him, jealous and vile, because that was his brother, his family who valued someone, a killer, a criminal, more than him. He wanted it. He wanted what they have.

Why him? Why Jason?

Jason didn’t deserve Tim, he didn’t deserve anyone, and Tim valued him higher than Dick?

Fuck no.

A scowl found its way onto Dick’s face as his little brother laid comfortably on his lap. He wasn’t even here, and Jason was destroying their family again. They had given him everything, a family, a home, chance after chance and he had thrown everything they had given to the ground.

Him?

After everything Jason had done, Tim still chooses him?

Pushed with an innate curiosity, Dick opened his mouth only to be stopped by the soft snores of his younger brother.

He dropped the question, smiling fondly at the sight. The kid was dead tired and looked like it too. He looked so small on Dick’s lap, as if the harshness of the world was a distant memory.

Dick refrained himself – for now. Another day, he thought. Because right now, Tim needed his brother.

God, he needed this.

He really needed this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone. I hope you're enjoying the story so far.
> 
> Just a quick FYI. Remember when I said that this was going to be a 20 + chapter story? Well, now it looks like it'll reach up to 40. Hope you understand.
> 
> Thank you.


	7. Life's Many What - ifs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason meets someone from his past, and wonders about his future.

Jason has always been that kind of person that holds brief moments of warmth close to his heart. The old owners of that little motel by the highway were wonderful. Bright, sparkling with more life than some of the people he knows.

Then again, he doesn’t know that many people.

They were welcoming in ways he could have only hoped as a kid. It seemed so natural, how they ushered him to breakfast and heartily laughed at his fairy-tale stories. If only they knew.

But what blew his mind was how at ease he felt around them, something he knows he shouldn’t be doing, but it’s relaxing and comforting knowing that there were people out there that had no ulterior motives, no evil desires, no hidden secrets.

Open.

A state of being Jason has long forgotten.

A memory flashes through him, about a dinner he had on the night when everything went to hell. A figure of his past that he never knew, creating a storm of emotions he wished he never had.

Anger, loneliness, longing.

Needless to say; he reacted poorly.

These old memories festered within him, replaying these ideas and dreams of what – ifs and what could have been. And before he could process it all, before he could lash out or cry in disgust; Crime Alley became a warzone.

He leaves that old motel, paying far more than the old couple could handle and scurried away before they could say anything about it.

They were a rarity in this world. People that have witness the world go up in flames but still smile at a new day.

Damn, he was getting too sentimental.

Moving quickly, he watches the truck drivers, the ones rubbing their eyes awake, drinking more coffee than they should as they wake themselves up for another long day of driving. Scurrying through each truck, he eyes the manifestos of each company, hurriedly looking for free trip to his destination.

Darting around the parking lot, after the fourth truck, his eyes finally land on his prize. The manifesto stated in clear, bold letters the city he desperately needed to go.

Hiding behind the driver seat, cramped with receipts and old take-out bags, he scrunches his nose in disapproval at the mess.

Alfred would have his hide with he was anywhere close to being this bad.

A moment passes, until he hears the lock of the door open and the truck dip slightly under the weight of the tub of lard that sat down on his chair.

Quickly, precisely and silently, Jason hit’s him on the soft flesh behind the guy’s ear, knocking him out instantly. Huffing in annoyance, Jason climbed over and buckling the man – Larry – his documents said, into the passenger seat.

By the time the guy wakes up, Jason would have been long gone, leaving only a sore neck from bad posture and no recollection of how he got to his destination.

Jason sets the truck in drive, feeling it drag under the weight of the cargo.

From New Jersey following the east road to his destination is a decent nine-hour drive and Jason swears underneath his breath, that Larry better be grateful that he’s doing his job for him. Long and arduous, Jason only stops for quick bathroom breaks and gas refills, skipping lunch altogether wanting to get this done and dusted.

And quite frankly, Larry didn’t need the extra double trouble cheese burger from Big Belly Burger.

By hour six, Jason was tempted to stop at a nearby pharmacy just to buy a sleeping mask for his passenger. How someone can snore that much, Jason will never know.

Around 3 o’clock, fighting off the urge to floor the truck way past speed limits, Jason finally sees the welcome sign grace him. Letting out a sigh of “thank-fucking-finally”, he parks the truck to the side of the road and walks up to the billboard.

**_Welcome to Central City – Home of the Flash_ **

Leaving the sleeping driver to his truck on the side of the road, Jason walks into the city border. Long and straight roads, no doubt to accommodate their hero, but Jason doesn’t take notice of the roads or the landmarks. He eyes the buildings, outlining the skyline with the majesty an east coast city would offer.

Tall, strong and bright. Encompassing everything Metropolis had to offer but had that uniqueness that could only manifest from their local heroes.

Barry Allen, Wally West, Jay Garrick, and a plethora of other speedsters that he honestly couldn’t name. Timelines and multiverses had screwed up everyone’s interpretation of who the fastest man – or woman – alive is.

But like the rest of the world, for every hero that appears, two more villains pop up in place to fight back.

A hydra of good intentions turned bad.

It’s a long walk, he notices, once he reached the city limits, he had to admit the Flashes do a pretty good job with community service. Batman tries, with his funding and fundraising events, going through Bruce Wayne to provide jobs and housing, but the difference between Batman and literally any other hero, is that he hides and helps in the shadows.

Superman, Flash, Green Lantern, Wonder Woman; they all step out into the light and help. Emergency aid, reconstruction, event branding and soup kitchens, things that children should aspire to be and adults to work to become.

Things Batman can’t do.

Anonymity and theatricality do not work whilst wearing an apron at a homeless shelter. But it also hides a tougher, darker fear Batman doesn’t like to admit.

Getting emotionally attached.

It’s why Bruce flies above the rooftops, a figure that steps in times of need and disappears when the fire has disappeared.

That’s what separated Red Hood – and now Red Ronin – from the Bats. They fly in the sky, he walks on the ground. Along the broken, talking with the corner girls and beggars, playing and being a parental figure to the street kids.

It helps him associate why he’s doing what he’s doing. Because the streets are his home, and if he doesn’t know who he’s fighting for, then why bother?

Through the suburbs, past the museums and galleries, he walks into the heart of Central City. Bustling and lively, barely a siren heard among the bustling chaos.

Jason knows that Gotham is unlike any other, but a jab of defeat hits him harder than he would like to admit seeing the difference between what he and his ex – family has achieved, with their brooding and terror, as opposed to the bright, cheerful speedsters.

Gotham was always broken like that, where blood is the only thing capable of washing away blood. A birthplace of crazies on both sides of the law, it was a breeding ground of the worst.

Have they really achieved anything?

Like a virus, they merely stopped the spread, unable to get to the root and just let it rot away. Make no mistake, Gotham would have burned without them but staying the same isn’t much of an improvement.

Jason shakes away the daunting thoughts, reminding himself to take everything one step at a time. He can’t help people when he’s being hunted.

A laugh cut’s right through him. Something he hasn’t heard in a long time, a distant time when he was hopeful and trying to fix…everything.

He turns around, and his heart skips seeing a group of women in casual clothing having the time of their lives, living.

In the middle, blonde hair bouncing along with each step, Jason is flooded of memories of a time he tried to be more than…him. A cover story so shit that it would have Bruce rolling in his grave – if the bastard was dead – and the beating heart of a schoolboy that never went to school.

Isabel Ardila.

Someone who once held his heart in her hands.

As beautiful as the day he met her. She looked…good. Smiling and laughing along with her friends, free from all the hardships he brought into her life.

Jason still remembers the day Joker gassed her to get to him. They held on, with love in their hearts that this could work out, but Jason knew deep down that she didn’t deserve the life he had brought upon her and with time, she understood it too as she broke it off.

An ultimatum Isabel knew he couldn’t accept.

Red Hood or her.

Isabel already knew the answer before she asked, leaving some parting words of a life beyond vigilantism. A possibility to reconnect without masks and fighting, living as a normal couple doing normal things.

Yoga sessions, walks on the beach, living in the suburbs with kids.

That’s what normal couples do, right?

Jason sees her eyes, sparkling blue, dancing with the rays of sunlight and the smile that could cheer up even this murder teddy bear. Those blue eyes flicker, shocked and still as it lands on him. The world disappears around them, just two people with a wardrobe filled with skeletons living their respective lives, only to run into each other.

Her friends follow her gaze and giggle incoherently, teasing her relentlessly. One of them – a brunette, with a cheeky smile – push her his way and Jason just feels his cheeks heat up and his heart beat a little faster.

Isabel looks conflicted – almost scared – and Jason feels the knives of sorrow sink into him. He was a wanted criminal, a murderer that kills ‘innocents’. Why shouldn’t she be afraid of him? Whatever bliss and purity they once shared was gone.

He was a convicted felon and she has already said she wants nothing to do with that part of his life.

He had already corrupted her enough, he didn’t deserve to be in her life anymore.

Turning around, he begins to walk away, but hears the soft thud of sneakers against the concrete floor. Stopping still, he hears her breath behind him and in that moment, it’s not a vigilante and civilian.

It’s just Isabel and Jason.

Slowly pivoting back to see her face, his heart hammers inside his chest, because there was something on her face that didn’t belong.

A smile.

Warm and wanted.

She always did have a beautiful smile.

“Jason.” She breathes out in awe and longing. The sweet, honey dew of her voice hits him harder than he could have imagined. It wasn’t hiding any fear, any dark intents, just the voice of a girl standing in front of a boy she once loved.

“Hey, Issy.” He says softly, heart breaking as her eyes widen in recognition.

No. She shouldn’t be here, not with him.

She got out, she **_got_** out. Away from this, the fighting, the pain, the fear…away from him.

She peers over her shoulder and waves her friends goodbye, only to be met with giggling and chatter. “Let’s go.” She says softly, but with a hardness under her words. Dragging him by the arm, she ventures into the city park, swerving her way around families, cyclists and runners.

“Issy.” He says softly, trying to get her attention. She doesn’t listen and keep dragging him along until they’re in the park centre, walled in from the city with greenery and trees. She takes him to a bench, facing the small pond and slowly lowers herself into the seat.

The world moves around him, but all Jason can do is stand and stare down into the hard eyes of his ex. Ducks are playing in the water, kids are running amok and the ding of bicycle bells ring out, but he only takes notice of her.

The way she holds herself, not taking any of his shit.

“Jay.” She says slowly, the creases in her face smooth out. “Please, sit.”

So he does, tentatively and apprehensively.

“It’s good to see you, Jay.” And that was not what he expected this conversation to go.

“It’s good to see you too, Issy.” She smiles at the little nickname. Warm and bubbly inside, a reminder of better times.

Jason fidgets around, feeling awkward and out of place as she sits by his side, humming at his hello.

A moment passes.

And then another.

Fuck, he cannot handle his emotional battle right now. “So, who were your friends?” Unable to take the silence anymore.

“Co-workers.” She answers simple and he winces at the bluntness.

A tense silence rings out, only to be broken by the inevitable. “Did you do it?” She starts off, turning her eyes towards him. “Did you do what they said you did?”

Jason stays silent for a moment, remembering all the news reports. How they went to town on his case, bringing up his past as the Red Hood and how Superman publicly declared him as a fugitive of the planet.

Superman.

The god damn symbol of hope and he goes and pulls shit like that.

Jason knows he and Clark never had the best of relationships, hell, there probably wasn’t one to begin with. But for all his justice talks, all his speeches on how there is good in everyone, how he’s openly declared that he has been saved by the Red Hood more than once, he steps to the side and just becomes another pawn in Batman’s army.

Jason knows he’s not the most stellar of role models but at least he knows damn well that Clark isn’t either.

Yeah, in Jason’s eyes, Superman wasn’t so super anymore.

“No, I didn’t.” He eventually answers. Sighing in frustration, he glances over to his ex – girlfriend and feels the sun showering him with warmth.

A kind and understanding smile that said a million stories.

“I didn’t do any of it, Issy.” He explains tiredly, rubbing his face in exasperation. “Things went to hell so quickly, that I didn’t know what was happening anymore until the big man decided to throw the first punch.”

The smile faltered, imagining it. “I thought they would listen, you know? That they would stand still and hear my side of the story. But instead, all I get is a lecture of how much of a disappointment I am, how they should have never believed in me, how we’re not family.” His shoulders tensed up in memory. “And the best part? The best part was that they dragged my team into it. All they wanted to do was protect me and what did the vampire do? He got his super lackeys to take them out, pinning them down. _God_ , Issy, they watched me be broken on some filth ridden rooftop and then get shipped off for something they didn’t do, just because they were my team.” Jason drooped his head defeated, shaking his head in anger.

Isabel sat there for a minute, soaking it all in. “That’s…shitty.” She finally manages.

Jason humph in agreement. “Yeah…” With a deep breath, he leaned back onto the park bench. “Someone set me up, Issy.” He voices, earning a horrified gasp from his companion. “The case was too convenient, too easy. I know back then I wasn’t the most careful guy around, but even I’m not dumb enough to leave my emptied mags lying around.” He admits, tilting his head over to read the expression on Isabel’s face.

Her eyes were glazed in horror. She held it there for a brief second before her face morphed into something akin to disgust.

A protective anger on his behalf.

He smiles slightly, knowing the at least he didn’t mess up another bond he had with someone.

Sighing with exasperation. “You were right, Issy.” He quietly admits, staring out into the pond. A symphony of noise plays out around them; the quack of the ducks swimming, the rings of bicycle bells and the cheers of the nearby ballgame, but all he can hear is her steady breaths.

“About what?” An inquisitive question held together with silence and the willingness to listen.

She would never have dated him if she wasn’t a good listener.

“This life I’ve built, it’s…it’s become too much.” He admits, staring down onto the ground. “No, not too much, just _exhausting._ Fighting one war only to go into another and there’s no end, Issy. I know that I’m doing good, I know, but we’ve come to this stalemate, you know? Good and evil, right and wrong, both sides not budging and just staying…even. I’m tired of staying the same, we push hard, and then they push back harder, and it just becomes this game of back and forth. It’s so frustrating – ” Rubbing his curly locks in irritation. “That we keep sacrificing everything we have and all we get is heartache.”

Isabel didn’t know if Jason was talking about his persona or his family anymore.

“What brought about this thinking?” She asks softly seeing the tired wrinkles that had no place on his face.

Jason stayed silent for a moment, only to shake his head in frustration. “I don’t know, is _everything_ a good answer?” A weakness he hated, to admit so readily about his shortcomings.

His companion nods understandingly, as if she has all the answers in the world. “Was it because they broke you?”

Jason scoffed, an instinctual response, and feels the weight of her eyes on him.

He curses himself for jumping once again, instinct can only get him so far. Watching, listening and learning will take him further. “I was already broken, Issy. They just finished the job.”

The intensity in his words shocks even himself.

“Is it wrong?” He asks meekly, turning his head around. “Is it wrong for me to think this is too much? I want to help people, I do, I always do…”

“And if you follow this train of thought, you think you might be betraying the people you swore to protect, in some way?” Jason tenses up, and that was all the answers she needed. She hums with a wisdom someone on the ‘outside’ would know.

“What hope is there to save someone when we can’t even save ourselves?” She asks sagely and Jason just feels the world around them stop.

A question he’s been too afraid to ask. Too stubborn to see the scars on his body that he looks for scars on his enemies.

“You live this life where there’s no sense of stability, no reason or logic, where everything is a little too on the nose, but you do it anyway because that’s the kind of person you are. I don’t – the things you’ve done, I might never fully agree with, but I can’t deny what you have achieved because of it.” He explains softly. “You get hurt so others don’t, something I fell for all those years ago.” Jason feels warm at the admission, remembering the good times in their brief stint as a couple. “But if you’re the one saving us, then who is saving you?”

Jason diverts his eyes in dread.

It was the bane of all heroes, this self-less sense of sacrifice, the honourable and heroic act of bearing the labours of the world, a gift in the eyes of the innocent, a curse in the hands of the broken.

No matter how much he delusions himself, pain does not fix pain and fear does not overcome fear.

But they do it anyway, through some twisted sense of justice, thinking they have what it takes to win. Foolish and naïve, hoping – always hoping – that the world will change because they say so.

There’s no winning in war.

Just a cycle of heartbreak and betrayal waiting to happen. They follow this path, thinking it’ll change something, only to start right where they begun believing the world has transformed into something better.

It’s the story of Jason’s life.

Nothing’s changed.

His ascent as Robin, his rebirth as Red Hood and his rise as Red Ronin still hasn’t changed anything.

Back to square one, just a lonely boy and his thoughts to keep him company, and that in itself was a chilling thought.

Isabel stares at him, at the man who once held her heart in his hand. She loved him and her loved her. But love only kept them together for so long, holding on with a hope that would never last.

In another life, they might have found each other, and they might have lasted. But mights and maybes are for those who dream for something that will never happen.

And they weren’t foolish enough to believe in that. Not again, at least.

“You’ve given and given and given without so much as a thank – you. You’re selfless like that hoping that your actions can help others, but it’s time that you learned that you’re allowed to be selfish. To prioritise your life and your aspirations. To have the same things you fought for others but for yourself.”

And that somehow sucked his breath away.

Could he do that?

Be selfish and have something for himself?

To be… _free_?

Jason couldn’t find it in himself to answer, so instead he stayed quiet.

Just two people on a park bench staring out.

It’s weird, he admits. Saying nothing, doing nothing, just staring out sitting with your ex in a city that you never expected them to be in. Like for a moment in time, everything seemed so distant. As if he wasn’t a good guy doing some bad, on the run from the very people who stabbed him in the back and she just rolls with it, like it was another Tuesday.

Is this normal?

Apparently, Isabel had the same thought.

“So…” She tries to break the unbearable silence. “What have you been up to?”

The look on Jason’s face was of utter amusement, smirking his devilish charm. “I can’t tell you that.” He answers, and she mentally slaps herself.

“Oh…right, sorry.” The downfall of every fugitive, unable to reach out and connect with others in fear of being taken.

A lonely existence.

The apology is waved away in confidence, but it doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel guilty for asking.

“Then are you okay?” She questions again. Maybe a vague question would be better, where the information is hidden between the lines.

“Can’t tell you that either.” He smiles warmly, but she knows him well enough that it’s for her sake, hiding his pain.

She huffs in annoyance. “Is there _anything_ you can tell me?” She strains, because damn, he was like a vault.

He casts his eyes away, shaking his head sadly. A little bit of her heart breaks knowing Jason well enough that he wants someone to listen. To be there for him as he floats away alone.

“I’m sorry, Isabel.” He apologizes softly. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, I do, I swear I do. But after everything that’s happened, I can’t take any chances with ‘them’ anymore. When it comes to me, privacy, human rights and ethics don’t exist.”

A sad and powerful statement about their protectors.

What do we give up in search for safety?

“I know, Jay.” A silence hangs out, lingering around with a lonely air of frustration. “They came for me when you ran.” She admits, watching as Jason whips his head around, eyes wide in shock and anger. “They thought I knew something about your whereabouts. A week of my life gone because they wouldn’t leave me alone.”

Oh, so that’s what the look of fear she had earlier meant.

A flicker of sadness and guilt washes over his face. “Issy, I’m so sorry.” She shakes her head at his apology.

“Don’t worry.” She claims. “I knew what I was getting into when I started dating you.”

“But you wanted out. You _got_ out.” He defends. She had every right to hate him, she didn’t deserve to be drawn into this life, with heroes and monsters, and now she was saying he had inadvertently dragged her back again? “You wanted to wash your hands of all of this, away from my ‘other’ life and instead I brought you back. This isn’t right, Issy.” He explains softly.

A fond smile spreads across her face. “You were always a big softie, caring about my life even when I’m not in yours.”

“I will always care about you.” He says firmly. “Not once have I ever _not_ cared. But you deserved so much more than I could give you.”

Isabel smiles softly at his words, reaching over and intertwining their hands together. “You always sell yourself short, Red.” Feeling the warmth of his hands in hers. “I was naïve thinking we could have made it work, a civilian and a vigilante, but it does not mean I didn’t cherish the time we had together. So don’t you dare think so lowly of yourself. You’re more than what ‘they’ think of you, and you’re so much more than what you believe you are.”

Jason tries to swallow away the rawness in his throat. “It was my choice to date you, as it was my choice to leave. None of this is your fault, so stop blaming yourself for my life choices, Jay.”

His eyes waver, before he looks back to the ground. “I’m still sorry, though.”

She huffs in amusement, but relents, nevertheless. “Apology accepted.”

With their hands intertwined, they feel into a comfortable silence, a sweet and rare peace in this war – torn life, as they watched out into the lake, watching the world move around them. “Whatever you’re doing here, they will come for me, Jay.” She says softly, feeling his hand tense in hers. “I can’t hide anything from them.”

“I know.” A quiet answer, so vastly different from the cocky, loud – mouth man he usually was. “But it’ll be fine.” Soothing words that had no effect on her.

“How can you say that? It is not fine.” She snaps, hating how frivolous he was with it all.

Jason chuckles at her explosion. “And what are you going to tell them?” He asks smugly, grating and sexy all at once.

What a little shit.

“You don’t know where I’ve been, who I’ve talked to, why I’m in Central City, and you certainly don’t know how long I may or may not be here for.”

Isabel opens her mouth to counter but falls short understanding how little he had revealed about himself. Rolling her eyes at his amusement, she admits. “Fair enough. But it doesn’t mean they won’t try.”

Those ocean blue eyes flicker at the mention, and the air becomes thick once again. “I’m sorry that I’ll be putting you through it.”

She shrugs indifferently. “Not going to lie, it was kind of fun pissing off the capes the first time around. Making them run around in confusion.” A stifled laugh falls past his lips and she smiles proudly. “That green space cop did try and hit on me though. Something to do with dinner and a concert, so I told him in the best ‘no-bullshit’ tone I had; _I don’t date guys who needs a giant green dildo to please me_.” Jason’s eyes looked like it was going to pop out of his head. “No joke, he looked like I ran over his puppy. Best. Rejection. Ever!”

A dam burst and Jason howls in laughter, unable to hold back his glee anymore just imagining Hal Jordon’s cocky grin fall right off.

“Fuck, Issy.” He stammers, trying to regain his breath. “That’s…that’s amazing. Incredible, awesome, magnificent. Tell me to stop, ‘cause I’m a walking thesaurus over here.”

She smirks proudly. “Nah, keep telling me how wonderful I am.” Giggling at her bravado, only to also end up as a laughing mess alongside her ex.

Pleasant, nice and heartfelt.

Things Jason hasn’t felt in a long time.

The chuckles die down, and he feels warm feeling her thumb rub circles on the back of his hands. Something clicks inside of him, a need, a want to let it all out. “I’m seeing someone.” He blurts out, cheeks reddening in nerves.

The rubbing stops, but she keeps her hand there. “Oh…” Her eyes are wide as the earth is round.

A beat, and then another.

“Tell me about her.” She says casually. “How did you two meet? What’s she like? Is she hotter than me?”

Jason just stares in shock at how casual her response was. Open and caring. Just two people who ended on relatively good terms, talking about their life. His lips curl up slightly, grateful that he had someone like her in his life.

“We met on a job.” Her thumbs begin to rub his hand again. “Two people who have nothing in common, meeting each other in a hopeless place. She was and still is, strong, proud, with an absolute ‘no-bullshit’ attitude to match. I gotta tell you, Issy, I still remember the moment she punched me in the face.”

A curious brow found its way onto her face. “That…doesn’t sound like a good quality.” She says gently.

He chuckled in admission. “Things weren’t sunshine and rainbows at first. She grated the hell out of me and I annoyed the fuck out of her, but the more we stood by each other, the more I got to see the girl she hid inside of her. Caring, smart, compassionate. With the weight of her people on her shoulders, she tried to do good by us and still perform her duties as a protector.”

Isabel stared at Jason, watching at how he expressed himself. Proud and free to say such praise for the woman that holds his heart.

“It wasn’t our intention to ever actually start dating. I flirted a bit, but she knew it was just me being a little shit.” He dismissed and Isabel couldn’t help but smile at that. Jason always did have that sense of romanticism and would always try and show it whenever he could. “And then, somewhere down the line, the feelings we had for each other grew. At first, we took it slow, not wanting to mess up the friendship that we had but also…” He hesitated for a moment, a raw truth on the tip of his tongue. “But also, because it was something both of us were unfamiliar with. Unexplored territory and we didn’t want to rush into things like hump bunnies and end up hating each other because of it.”

Isabel laughed a little at the mental image.

But she stayed silent, letting him ramble on, and although it was weird to admit it, she quite enjoyed hearing her ex – boyfriend talk about his current lover. A hope and fire in his eyes, filled with love and affection. But more than that, more than the warmth in his voice was how…settled he was just thinking about her.

Yes, that was the word.

Settled.

Her yang to his yin.

She doesn’t know much about the woman, only the information Jason was ready to give, and the assumption that she was his Amazonian partner in his team, but she could tell – call it a sixth sense for ex-boyfriends – that this mystery woman and Jason were going to be just fine.

She must have been staring for a while, because Jason sat quietly looking into her faraway eyes with a certain glint in his eyes. “Something else on your mind?” He teases.

She giggles in response. “No, dumbass.” She answers. “It’s just…she sounds good for you.” She admits, and the way Jason’s eyes widened in response told her that he didn’t expect such an answer. “As cheesy as it sounds, she’s your other half.” A warm smile reaches his face and it feels like the sun threw up on her. A kind thank – you. “So, don’t you dare disappoint her.”

A serious demand met with a serious nod. “I won’t.”

Slowly, they let go of each other’s hand and stand up from the park bench. Goodbyes were never their strong points, but standing then and there, it felt right. A part of their lives that they had fully moved on from.

Not a word is uttered, but the seriousness in their eyes told a million stories.

Gratitude, thanks, a vow of redemption and a heartfelt goodbye shone through their eyes. Isabel turned around, not looking back and began to walk away. Moving on with her life as he moved on with his.

Jason watches the figure of someone he once loved walk away. Another life, another mystery he’ll never solve. A what – if he’ll never know.

But he’s done chasing what – ifs. What if Bruce loved him? What if he never died? What if he was never adopted?

He’s done chasing them.

They were just another obsession that would disappoint him all over again. He was done with regrets and failed hope, so instead he chases the things he can.

Roy’s said it so many times that Jason can recite it from heart.

_"Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference."_

Looking out on the Central City skyline peering above the trees, he feels the winds of fate changing. A breeze of a new dawn, writing his name.

Time to start recruiting.


	8. Plans in Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One step at a time.

A bar.

What a fucking cliché.

After his little accidental meeting with Isabel, Jason went back to his original task at hand. It’s a risky play, not pushing the plan forward in fear that a certain paranoid and extremely intrusive Bat would suddenly decide to check in on his ex – girlfriend, but Jason has had enough experience rushing through plans, only to get his ass handed to him.

Patience and persistence will get him through this.

Past the parks, past the skyscrapers, Jason ends up downtown, right next to a district development zone. Skeletal structures of towers and apartments ran up into the sky as Jason watches his surroundings, taking note of the people that pass by.

Blue collar workers, shifters in alleys and corner girls under street lights.

A literal hunting ground for crooks and hired muscle. Where everything is loud and dirty, with flashing lights and distant sounds of sirens, it reminds him to a home he can’t go back to.

He’s never been here before, but the streets talk to him like a lost son, navigating him through streets as their own. It tells him about the dirty deals in dark corners and malicious eyes at every turn. He slips in and out with an undignified grace, showing those around that he was one of them.

A street rat.

Further into the darkness, his eyes land on his destination, a biker’s bar known in the criminal underground as a hotspot for cheap drinks, morally degraded girls and most importantly, high – profile rogues.

Just from the outside, Jason can tell that it was his type of bar. The neon sign is barely hanging on, held afloat by the electrical wires it used, the bouncers outside are barely doing their job, turning a blind eye whenever cash magically lands in their hands.

It’s an unbecoming place for a Wayne, but luckily for Jason, he isn’t one.

But he doesn’t enter.

A new kid walking in, looking like he belongs would scream ‘cop!’

People will ask questions, get shifty and Jason would garner attention from every low – life in Central City. If that doesn’t get the Justice League running, he doesn’t know what will.

So instead he walks out of the darkness, into the cheap light of the main street and jumps over a construction fence surrounding the development of a new Wayne building a few hundred yards away.

Big and grandiose, Jason smirks knowing Bruce’s very own ideation of help and support will be a base of operations for his greatest failure.

It’s the little things that counts.

Over fifty floors of concrete and pipeline, Jason checks around, eyeing the bags of cement and plywood lying around. It’s dirty and barren, but Jason’s stayed in worse.

A lifetime ago, all of this could have been his.

But a lifetime ago he was still alive. A kick filling boots that was never meant for him, no matter how much he loved it.

Hefting up a couple bags of cement, Jason lays them down near the edge of the 30th floor, peering out over the city. In the faint distant, he can see the blinking neon light of the bar flutter in and out of life.

Pulling binoculars from his bag, he lays down and waits.

Patience and persistence.

That first night was a bust. Only the odd bar fight and handsy drunkard caught his attention, but he stays vigilant, watching and waiting, peering through the lenses into the world he used to live in.

The second night wasn’t much different, with only protein bars and discarded water bottles to keep him company, Jason feels his back ache and his elbows chaffed against the hard ground, but he ignores it.

Two years he has waited, and there was no way in hell he was going to throw away his hard work because he was bored.

And his persistence finally paid off on the third night.

A commotion erupts from the bar, a broad-shouldered man, with gruff features and an attitude to match dragging some poor soul out into the back alley. Jason wiggles in anticipation watching a small group follow out behind him.

The Flash Rogues.

What followed was a beatdown Jason was all too familiar with. Hands slick with blood, gory and intense, Jason could even see strings of blood connected fist against face from his position.

The guy was being made example of.

But Jason merely shrugs.

Not his fight, not his problem.

The guy knew what type of bar he was getting into, his fault for not turning around.

And then something clicks. Jason doesn’t remember watching the group of Rogue’s coming in. Between their jumper clad leader, all the way to their goddess of beauty sister, Jason would have noticed them.

“Oh, for fucks sake.” Secret entrance.

Jason plopped his head against the cement bags in annoyance. It’s wasn’t uncommon for villain bars to have little hidey-holes where they would scurry out of in case a cape comes barging in and having the new development here meant new train lines, underground electrical and sewage passages.

An entire city network at the Rogue’s disposal.

More work.

_Fun._

Before Jason can pack up, and research more about the underground network, his phone vibrates in his pocket.

A bolt of paranoia struck him fiercely, as Jason immediately started forming escape routes. Pulling his phone out apprehensively, as if it suddenly turned into a bomb, Jason noticed it was a blocked number.

An optimist would say Talia was calling.

A pessimist would say Bruce was taunting him.

A realist would say Bruce would already be beating his ass five ways to Sunday without the need to call.

Talia it is.

He answers, swiping the slide over and bringing it up to his ear. His heart started to beat a little faster, not hearing anything on the other side.

“Mom?” He calls out to the other end, feeling a sense of dread enveloped him. She shouldn’t be calling, that was the agreement. Too risky unless…

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” His voice hitches a little thinking of all the things that could have happened.

_"I’m fine, habibi.”_ Soft and gentle answered back and Jason let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

But that sense of ease was squashed as an innate curiosity overwhelmed him. “As much as I love listening to your voice, what’s going on? We agreed on radio silence.”

A beat or two fell out, waiting, silent and unnerving in all the wrong ways that had Jason eye his surroundings, looking for anything ‘costume’ related. _“I know, but recent events had made me…reconsider.”_ She answers slowly, as if she was carefully forming her words, tip-toeing delicately around a sensitive topic.

“Mom, you’re scaring me.”

He hears a sigh on the other end of the line. Talia sounds tired, working on fumes. _“She keeps calling me, asking for you.”_

Jason’s heart skyrocketed.

‘She’ was calling?

_No,_ fuck no.

He wasn’t too sure what had happened. One moment he had his phone against his ear, the next it collided with the concrete wall with a resounding crack, shattering into pieces and it took all of Jason’s might not to scream in anger.

Not now. She just doesn’t get to…

Not her.

Forcing himself to calm down, he tries to keep his head in the game, remembering Talia’s soft voice and gentle touch. He tries to remember less confusing times, when he wasn’t Jason Todd, just a nameless boy cared for by a woman that would one day become his mother.

Aromatic green tea, tales of the orient, and the light breeze of the evening. When everything wasn’t… _chaotic_. Feeling at peace when it was just her and him.

He tries to fall back to a time when he felt safe.

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

Feeling his heart slow down, Jason riffled through his bag and pulled out another burner phone, inserting a new sim-card and dialled.

The phone never got past the first ring. _“Are you done?”_

Jason winces apologetically. “Sorry, Ma. I needed to vent a little.” Feeling his sudden energy drain out of him. “It’s just…she doesn’t get to do this, T. The shit she’s pulled I still haven’t completely forgiven her for and she just…she just doesn’t get to do this.”

Talia hums in response and Jason feels a drop of trepidation sitting in his stomach. _“And why is that?”_

Jason reels back in surprise, feeling the ghost of his mother reach through the phone and slap him. “Why?” He growls, his voice growing. “Why?! She left me!”

_“And she is now asking to come back.”_ Jason feels his fist curl, clenching tight as his flesh turns into an icy white. _“Little one, take it from someone who has spent a lifetime not being able to watch her own flesh and blood grow up, knowing that his father will never allow me to be in his life. Watching from afar, knowing you could never touch them can crush even the strongest.”_

“And that’s why you chose to keep this fuck-up? Because you needed a replacement for the brat?” He snaps, instantly regretting his words.

She hissed on the other end. _“Don’t you dare raise your tone at me.”_ She demands, and he shrinks at her tone. _“Don’t you dare question my love for you as some fleeting decision because I was lonely. I am not **him**. I do not need the presence of a child to make me feel worthy. The moment you declared yourself as my son, I wanted nothing more than to be the mother that birthed you, but that is not how life works.”_

A weight buries him, her words destroying any anger he held.

She inhales her irritation away and proceeds slowly. _“She has wronged you, and you have every right to hate her for it but I have seen you forgive ‘that failure’ for greater wrongdoings, I believe somewhere in your heart, you could forgive her too.”_

“It’s not the same.”

Jason hated himself in that moment thinking of what would have happened if she never left him. That’s the problem with what – ifs. No matter how much you fight against it, no matter how much you given up on such naïve hope, it always finds a way back.

He had promised himself that he was beyond such hope and here he was thinking it.

_“How is it not? In fact, she simply never existed in your life, while he has.”_

Jason loves Talia, but using Bruce as a comparison irked him greatly.

“Because I needed her.”  Unable to hold back his anger. “I needed her and she was never there!” He almost screamed, fresh tears dancing on his eyes.

“I needed her.” A broken cry of a young man that never lived the life he wanted.

_“I’m not saying that you are to forget everything she has wronged you with.”_ Stern, yet gentle. Protective but pushing for more. _“You are one of – if not – the most forgiving person I have ever met, Tayir. Pain and suffering is all you have ever known and yet you still carry this wonderful hope inside of you.”_

Jason slumps onto the ground, too emotional to stand, listening to the softness of his mom’s voice. _“Give her a chance, beloved. Because that is all she is asking; a chance. I do not expect you to place all of your heart and trust into her, nor do I believe she has the right to have such a treasure. But a chance is all that she is asking.”_

“I…” He sobbed, reliving his memories like a fresh hell. “I don’t know, mom. I don’t know.”

_“She is not Bruce, habibi.”_ The sudden appearance of the name struck him to his core, feeling despair run through him on the off chance someone was listening in.

Talia would never say it over the phone unless she wasn’t serious. _“Bruce has been given chance upon chance to be your father. By some miracle you came back into his life and he has squandered it needlessly because – to him – his mission always comes first. Because to him, you are not enough and that is the furthest from the truth. **He** has lost the right to be your father, but she is not him, Tayir. A fresh start, a blank slate, with no expectations or demands for you to be someone you are not.”_

As much as he hated it, as much as he wanted nothing to do with ‘her’, Jason couldn’t argue.

No expectations.

No glass case or a cautionary tale.

No childhood bedroom turned museum.

A chance to start over from ground zero.

“And if it fails?” He asks weakly, already feeling the pain of defeat pierce through him. “If it doesn’t work out, what then?”

_“Then you leave.”_ Like a sharp blade, it cut through any sense of doubt Jason had. _“You leave and you don’t turn back, no matter what happens.”_

And fuck, does that sound tempting.

Gulping down his nerves, Jason nodded into the emptiness. “Okay…” His voice shakes. “I – I hate what she did to me, leaving me there, prioritising her greed, but…but if it’s just a conversation, I can do that.” He swallows once again. “Tell her that when the time is ready, we’ll talk. Just the two of us and I’ll be willing to listen.”

_“As you wish.”_

Something bubbles inside of him, a hopeless what – if he so desperately tried to keep down. Rubbing the tears away, he sucked in a breath of fresh air, throat shuddering at the rawness it provided. “What if it works out? What then?”

The what – if he so desperately wanted to forget.

_“I do not have an answer for that.”_ Jason already knew that was what she would say, but it didn’t leave his heart feeling dejected in uncertainty. _“She can become many things. A consort, an advisor, a confidant, even a family member. I do not know, because it is up to you to decide.”_

He shut his eyes, breathing heavily, feeling another layer of complications settle within his life. “Why are you so for this idea?”

_“I want what is best for you. If it means you having another person in your life that you consider as family, then so be it. But it also means, if you must cut connections with certain people in your life, then I will support you with absolute faith.”_ And that took his breath away.

They stayed in silence, holding onto the phone far longer than advisable but neither of them said a word as Jason merely wished to have his mother comfort him when he needed. “Ma?”

_“Yes, Tayir?”_

A small silence washed over them.

“Thank you.”

_“Of course.”_ Quick and decisive. As if she would do anything less for him.

Jason was hers, for now and forever. Whatever he wished, whatever he needed, she would provide without question. No man of fear, no goddess of truth, no bulletproof alien would stand between her and her son.

She wouldn’t be much of a mother otherwise.

_Click._

 

~

 

_In other news, the JT Restoration Project is now in full swing. Our beloved uncrowned Prince of Gotham has just announced that the development project has just been finalised and will be rolling out within the week._

_His business partner, Elaine Peterson has provided us a statement regarding Gotham’s development and Crime Alley’s ascent to its prime. “We are dedicated to the future of our home and our people, creating a place of peace and prosperity for our children and their children. My dear friend, Bruce Wayne, son of one of the greatest men I have ever known is just the very model of excellency his parents would be proud of. Soup kitchens, homeless shelters, housing affordability and orphanages are some of the many projects we will expand upon to make what Gotham deserves to be.”_

_“Our home.”_

_Nearly a decade after the loss of his son, Jason Todd, it seems like Bruce Wayne’s dedication in creating a Gotham his son would be proud of his still going strong. Fighting harder and harder everyday for a peace his son never had._

_This is Vicky Vale, reporter of everything Gotham. Stayed tuned for more._

 

~

 

Jason’s guess was right.

It was a newly built electrical main running under the bar all the way to the development projects further downtown. Used for city maintenance, it was a labyrinth of dark corridors and old train tracks the city was too lazy to dig out.

Merely converted for convenience.

With multiple openings, some decommissioned and some in use, Jason had no choice but to spend a couple of more nights, running back and forth between each entrance watching who goes in and out.

Jason didn’t have to spread the search far, out of all available entrances only two didn’t have functioning cameras and only one decommissioned site was found to be dug up, and judging by the dirt tracks, it was used often.

Maybe it was the street rat in him, maybe his experience as a crime lord but he was ashamed how easily he spotted them. Only a couple hours after nightfall did that rats come out and Jason watched a small parade of lowlifes duck into the abandoned tunnel until the blue of Captain Cold’s jacket came into view and his sister’s golden blonde hair bounced behind.

Staying still, watching from afar, Jason didn’t need to bother following them in or trail them back to their safehouse, as his eyes landed on their travel van.

More specifically, their licence plate.

Because even the best criminals needed to fit in with general society. Jason would know.

It didn’t take long, hacking into CCPD database and pulling up vehicle registrations. Jason wasn’t the greatest tech guy around, and even if he’s gotten better in the last couple of years, Jason’s eyes bulged out in surprise seeing how easy it was for him to get in.

_This? This is the best they could do?_

It was practically a ‘1234’ password for the entire network.

Jason shook in his head in anguish, leaving this gargantuan mess for the Flash to handle. It’s not Jason’s fault if the city ends up in the dark ages, too trusting of their self-proclaimed protector.

_Urrgh. And we wonder why everything is going to hell._

Not needing his hideout any more, Jason moves – quickly and efficiently – evading cameras and looking his part as a law-abiding citizen. Granted, that was the most difficult change he had to make in the past two years.

Knowing how to walk past the masses and not have his body language scream “I’m a criminal!” It was honed for years, tough, vile and unrefined, this look of a bad boy was one of his greatest weapons in his war against crime.

With his ‘piss off’ face and imposing build, it sent a clear message to anyone around him that he should not be messed with.

But eventually, his greatest weapon became his curse.

People walked _around_ him, turning their eyes away in fear, and any decent cop could easily pick him out in a crowd. If the cops could do that, then he had no chance against the Bats.

His old habits were the first to go.

The two months he was in Talia’s care, going through rehab, Talia was there every step of the way, teaching him how to walk, how to talk, proper and pristine, able to change his body language in a heartbeat or hide his emotions on a blank slate.

If he was being honest, those two months was hell. Feeling his bones grind against each other, the burn of his lungs boiling him from the inside and the feeling of ineptness as he kept failing Talia’s teachings.

It hurt. A knowing feeling in his heart living this hell he was put through. The agony he felt was worse than any crowbar he’s endured.

His beating at the hands of Batman fresh on his mind, forced to live through the aftermath knowing they were probably having a family dinner, happy that the failure wasn’t there to ruin it all.

Yeah…to Jason, revenge and justice were one and the same.

A couple hours of walking later, his GPS pings in confirmation and Jason judges the Rogue’s current safehouse from the outside. If it wasn’t for the mould travelling up the side and rust apparent on the metal railings, it would have looked like a just any other dime in a dozen apartment block.

It’s old and decrepit, but Jason’s not a bumbling fool to not notice the thumb sized camera placed on top of the door frame and fresh gutters and pipes running along the outline of the building.

It’s been cared for, maintained and secured.

But he never moves in.

The team were a little rough around the edges, tactless and ineffective at times, but the Rogue’s were still formidable enemies, and Jason would bet another beating that they rigged the entire place with sensors, cameras and traps.

Instead, he plants a small digital scrambler on radio tower two blocks away, seeing a bright array of calls within a 5-mile radius show up on his tablet. Names, addresses, phone numbers, any call that was made in the vicinity would show up.

Popping in headphones, all Jason had to do was wait.

And like he guessed, after his small pack of prey enter the safety of their homes did they make a call –

To a local 24-hour pizza joint.

Jason’s grin widened menacingly, listening to Mick Rory’s drunken profanity to the poor college kid on the other line. A series of words rung out that Alfred would have dragged the bastard by the ear and washed his mouth out with soap, Jason had no regrets for what he was about to do.

Such as calling the same pizza place with his best drunk impersonation and switching the delivery address to a block away.

A few drunken slurs here and there and Jason was already in the local corner store buying the cheapest brand of whiskey he could find.

15 minutes pass and Jason uncork the top, splashing some on his clothes and gargling a large mouthful before spitting it out. As his legs sway side to side, the distant lights of a 2002 scooter pops into view and Jason performs the act of a lifetime.

“Heya, buddy.” His head moving independently from his body. “Isthatforme?” His words tumbled out in a mess of barely distinguishable English.

The rather sceptical undergrad eyes him carefully, scrunching his nose in distain at the reeking smell of alcohol. “Umm…Are you Mick Rory?”

“Tha’s me.” Jason thumps his fist against his chest proudly, feeling like a fucking Neanderthal.

“Oh cool, that will be $45.50.” He says expectantly, and Jason roughly rummages around in his pockets and pulling two crumpled fifties.

“Keep th’ change.” He slurs, hiccupping for added affect. The kid’s eyes bulge out of his sockets and he swoops it into his jacket, hoping the drunk idiot in front of him didn’t realise. “Thnks.” Almost falling over as the boxes land in his hands.

Just as the ratty little shit was about to drive off, Jason stops him, roughly grabbing him by the shoulder. “I like your hat.” He says, eyes unfocused as it travelled over the delivery boy’s head.

“Umm…thanks?”

“How mu’?”

He reels back a little startled. “Excuse me?” He accused.

“Not you, ya pansie.” Jason swears. “Ya hat. How much _hic_ for the hat?” Flailing his arms around, almost knocking the kid’s head off.

“Sir. It’s not for sale.”

Jason blinks aimlessly for added measure, leaning back a little as if the kid denied him a cookie. “How’s…” Pulling out a stack of cash and awkwardly counting the bills. “Ah, fuck it.” Thrusting the roll into the kid’s hand. “Can I have it now?” He leans in, letting the alcohol in his breath hit the kid with disgusting vigour.

Apparently, he didn’t even need to act, as the kid’s eyes were glued on the bundle in his hands. “Sure…It – It’s all yours.” He absentminded pulls it off and throws it Jason’s way.

Before Jason could get an encore, the little brat speeds off. Not wanting to see if the drunkard was going to pounce on him for his money. “Grubby, little shit.” Jason chuckles.

Discarding his ruined clothes, he chews on a fresh mint and puts on his red hoodie and the newly acquired red cap. Walking up to the Rogue building, he presses the doorbell, hearing the faint chime ring out.

_“Who is it?”_

“Pizza delivery for a Mr. Mick Rory?”

A quietness hangs around him, as they are no doubt checking the entrance security camera. After a moment, _“come on up.”_

The buzz of the door jolts Jason’s adrenaline sky high as he makes his way to the elevator, through the hallway until his feet stop on room 4.5 C. “Pizza delivery.” He calls out, knocking on the door.

“Fucking finally.” A cheer erupts from the other end that had Jason raising his eyebrow in question. The door swings wide open and Jason is met with a beast of a man, roughly his height and weight, staring at him with the foulest stink eye imaginable.

Without a word, the intoxicated limp dick pops the top box in Jason’s hands and starts eating from it right then and there.

Oh, the things Alfred would do to him.

“Jesus. H. Christ, Rory.” Someone calls out from inside. “At the very least pay the kid before you almost bite his fucking fingers off.”

Jason smiles ruefully at the scene, feeling degraded that he was effectively a tray table to the guy. Mick merely grunts his displeasure and moves back inside with all four boxes, leaving a dumbfounded Jason at the door.

“Sorry about the pig.” A sultry voice call to him. “No matter how much we try, a wild animal is a wild animal.”

Golden Glider comes into view, eyes sparkling at delight and Jason slowly nods in confirmation. “My, aren’t you a strong fellow?” Her voice is venom dipped in honey and it takes all of Jason’s will to keep his façade intact.

A small stack of bills is slowly stuffed into his hands.

In the corner of his eyes, he sees his mark become disinterested, more focused on the food than him. “You know what they say ma’am.” Jason keeps up the act. “Healthy body, healthy life.

“Ma’am?” Her figure tenses up. “I’m don’t look _that_ old, do I?” She leans in, feeling his arms, loving the way he shudders as her breath latches onto him.

“Damn right you are.” The gruff pizza devourer speaks up. “My advice, kid, run and never look back. Unless you have a thing for Gilfs.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Mick.” Lisa snaps, holding onto Jason’s bicep with a strength unlike her size. “And call me Lisa.” She orders Jason sternly.

“Yes, Lisa.” He stammers out. A silence envelops them, only to be filled with disgusting sounds of undignified chewing in the background.

Jason laughs a little at the way she scrunches her nose. “Brothers – ” He jokes, gaining her attention. “You hate that you love them.”

A fond smile finds its way onto Lisa and she nods in agreement, watching her small team of misfits fight for a slice. “Yeah…they’re mine.”

Jason feels a numbness corrode him listening to her words.

A life he had, a place he fought for, a family that will never accept him.

Lisa looks at the wistfulness in his eyes, seeing them flicker at the scene behind her. “You’ve got siblings I take it?” For a moment she sounded genuinely interested, but Jason wasn’t going to be lulled by sweet words.

“Yeah.” He lies. “They annoy the hell out of me though.”

She laughs, bright and cheerful, nodding in mirth because Leonard was an ass and Mick wasn’t even related to her by blood, but damn did she love them.

Falling down from her high, he looks at him thoughtfully. “A family man…I like that.” Jason shudders at how quickly she changed from sincerity and honesty, to a dark playfulness.

Reminds him too much of a clown lady he used to know.

“So…” She purrs, playing idlily with his collar. “Do you have a girlfriend?” Such a sweet and innocent question laced with so much danger.

“Um…ye – yes, I do. Ma’am, I mean, Lisa.” He adds in a gulp for good measure.

“Oh?” She sways further in, leaning her ample bosom against his chest. “We could have so much fun.” She giggles playfully and Jason feels sick listening to the fake, sweetness in her voice. “Tell me.” She demands softly, letting the words roll off her tongue. “When was the last time you did something… _naughty?_ ”

The rogues behind her shake their head in annoyance. Apparently, this wasn’t the first time she messed around with the pizza boy. Lisa perks up in delight as Jason leans in.

Whispering into her ear, he starts the game. “About five seconds from now.”

He sees the muscles in her neck tense up. “What?”

She’s dropped.

A dart attached firmly in her stomach.

Now that his body was no longer obstructed by their fellow rogue, did they finally see the gun in his hands.

3 shots ring out, his first one downs his mark instantly, crumbling to the floor unable to use his powers. The second and third miss as the other two rogues were quicker with their reaction.

Rory charges at Jason whilst Snart leaps to his cold gun in desperation.

A common tactic Jason analysed, letting the cool and collected leader move out of distance and assess the situation and let the hot – blooded teammate take the enemy’s attention.

Something Jason and Tim used to do.

So Jason ignores the impending mass of muscle and aims carefully down his sight. Cold notices too late as a dart finds itself stabbed into his neck. Like a puppet without strings, Leonard Snart falls as Heatwave tackles Jason to the ground.

Jason had to hand it to the guy, he had one hell of a tackle. Brutal and efficient, it knocked the air out of Jason’s lungs as he tensed his stomach defence.

God only knows the damage he could have done if Jason didn’t.

Wild and feral, it was just the two of them brawling on the ground, fighting for supremacy.

Heatwave threw punch after punch, a wild fury in his eyes, searching for blood. But Jason stayed relaxed, swaying his body from side to side, watching with sick satisfaction the sound of Mick’s fists brutally hit the cold hard ground under him.

Damaging his knuckles to a painful degree.

But the man wouldn’t be considered a Flash rogue if he didn’t know how to handle pain, so he pulls back once more, aiming for the stomach instead of the head and throws his full weight behind it.

_Finally._

With a quick swipe, Jason’s hand redirected the blow and used the rogue’s momentum to bring him further in as he quickly wrapped his legs around his head, pinning him arm underneath his windpipe.

A triangle choke.

Jason watches Mick’s pupils dilate with adrenaline, forcing him to keep fighting. 10 seconds was all he needed before the lack of oxygen to the brain shuts the man down.

With desperation, lacking any finesse, Heatwave firmly plants his foot onto the ground, propelling the two upwards as his second leg came by for support.

A common wrestling tactic.

Dropping the entire weight of both fighters, it would break ribs and rip the air out of Jason’s lungs. An effective and brutal way to escape, something Jason would have done a long time ago. Followed by a devastating beatdown on the already broken ribs.

Vicious and merciless, it would break after even the strongest of men.

But there was more to fighting than just strength. Something Jason had to learn the hard way. Intelligence and the wisdom to act played a key role in overturning even the most desperate of situations.

Two things Mick Rory wasn’t using.

_Pht. Pht._

The tranquilizer.

Mick’s eyes widened, feeling the sharpness of the darts slide in him. He struggled against it, they always do, but the sedative always wins in the end.

Letting go of the choke, Jason watched as the last light of fight in Mick’s eyes fizzle out as his body fell with a resounding slam against the hard floor.

Jason eyed his work carefully, looking for any hints that he had missed something. Lisa was by the door, stunned and paralysed, Mick was to his side, struggling to fight against the toxin, Leonard was behind the tipped table, an intelligible groan escaping his bowels, and Jason smiled in satisfaction as the target’s eyes lit up in fear, but his body couldn’t follow his commands.

“I got to admit, these pufferfish toxins are one of a kind.” Jason snarks, playfully walking over Mick’s sedated body towards his mark. “Rare and incredibly potent, these little fuckers are a torturer’s best friend.” Laughing a little at how his target desperately tried to move, his head swaying slightly side to side but his body stayed still.

Lights on up top. Empty down the bottom.

Jason feels a gust of a light breeze hit him and he smiles darkly at the weak attempt to fighting back. “This sedative is one of a kind. You see – ” He explains softly, kneeling in front of the lying figure waving his gun around. “Once you’re injected with one of these, all motor functions stop. Legs, hands, neck. Lights out. Everything from the neck down forgets how to work.” Smiling forebodingly at the lying figure. “It’s such a great torture tool. There’s no better way to put the fear of god into scumbags than make them watch themselves be broken, piece by piece, blood dripping out of them as I play the harp with their veins, knowing that they can’t run away.”

“Wha – wh’t…wan’?” His mark questions, the words were barely comprehensible.

And like a flip of a switch, a bright and cheerful smile replaces the fear inducing glint in Jason’s eyes.

“Why, Mark Mardon, I have a job proposition for you.”


	9. Missing Puzzle Piece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Jason, things weren't always peachy between the two, but they had to have started from somewhere.

Since Jason’s return from the dead and eventual reconnection with the family, Tim had learnt a lot from the wayward Robin.

It was easy to jump to conclusions whenever someone new met Jason, only hearing the stories of duffle bags and heads, had Tim smother a laugh. Jason – _I’ve got a rep to maintain_ – Todd was nothing but a murderous teddy bear.

Behind the snark and perpetual “fuck off” face, Jason was a geek. Alfred had wistfully told stories of the kid that spent more time in the library than his own room, with such vigour and pride that made Tim a little awestruck and in some cases, _jealous_. He could talk Dumas and Shakespeare with the best of them, going on and on about contemporary language and hidden meanings that had Tim nursing an aching and tired brain from listening.

Is this what it feels like when he talks computers?

Saying Jason was passionate, was a clear understatement.

The guy was a fanatic.

And it was surreal how well put he was whenever he was with a book, resting easy, Jason would always scrunch his eyebrows together whenever he landed on a mystery, bit his lip with drama scenes and faintly smiled at the lovey-dovey mess that were the main characters.

Give him a sweater, put him by a fireplace and Jason was practically a carbon copy of Bruce. The look on Jason’s face was priceless when Tim brought that up. But more than the books, more than the brains behind the brawns, Jason was just a big softie.

The kids, _god,_ the kids loved Jason. A father figure that they could depend on, something Jason never truly had. It was adorable frankly, Big Bad Hood letting toddlers and babies alike wear his helmet, giggling uncontrollably, the voice synthesiser unable to pick up the high pitch. If the spray paint of Jason’s signature red hood in Gotham alleys said anything, it was that he was their hope. The favelas, the scrap metal homes and ratty apartments, they wore his symbol with pride, daring anyone to say anything about their hero. Teens, wonderful, bright, hopeful teens, who were dealt a bad hand were pulled back before falling too far into the darkness mimicked the sound of his guns and the roar of his motorbike.

The sound of hope.

The working girls adored him, a protector that didn’t expect any payment, that didn’t judge them for what they did to survive. Many nights had Tim witnessed Jason pull of his helmet, with only his domino hiding his eyes and become surrounded by girls kissing him fiercely on the cheek in appreciation.

Jason understood Gotham, not the fancy Ritz, nor the posh galas, and swanky night life but true Gotham. More than Tim, Dick or even Bruce every could.

Tim didn’t think Jason could surprise him anymore, but like always Jason lived to defy expectations. Hidden behind closed doors, Jason had made Tim promise that he would not utter a word to _anyone_ , in strict confidence that he had in his little brother –

That he and Artemis had become a thing.

Tim felt… _honoured,_ that Jason would tell him, trusting him above anyone else in their family about something so personal with his life, believing that Tim wouldn’t run back to the Manor and gossip about Jason’s love life.

And Tim had honoured that promise with extreme devotion, not even after the Outlaws arrest did Tim ever mention Jason’s personal attachment to Artemis, feeling that admitting such a detail and having it be used _against_ Jason would be lowly and deprived.

Away from the Bats, in the presence of his own team, Jason was settled. Something he has never truly had, and something Tim would never take away.

And that’s where Tim had learnt the most surprising detail about Jason, utterly bewildering him, that almost made him break his promise and gossip with Stephanie about.

Jason Todd, the Red Hood, murder teddy bear was a romantic idiot at heart.

Bad boy Jason, with his leather jackets, and hidden knives teared whenever he watched the Notebook and bawled his eyes out on the Titanic. The same crime lord that brought the Gotham underground to its knees, the Red Hood that harassed the Bats for months, even years likes walks on the beach and flowers and roses on Valentine’s Day.

A cheesy, romantic idiot.

But there was one thing that Tim had learnt from Jason that trumps everything else. It was that –

_No-one is perfect._

Tim had already known such philosophy, but Jason had hammered it in him. No-one was perfect, and they didn’t need to be.

Before they were close, after the whole getting stabbed in the chest thing, Tim and Jason weren’t always… _chill._ They operated in Gotham, they saw each other across rooftops and on a few occasions fought side by side, but that was it, nothing more than strangers hiding behind masks.

But they had to start from somewhere, right?

Tim stills remember the night, he didn’t know why or how or what he was doing but he was running across the rooftops, heart pumping with fury and he just needed _something_ to help him get it out of his system.

A tiny flicker of light from a few rooftops away caught his attention, and if asked, _now,_ Tim would admit that he was ashamed in thinking he needed someone to hit. That someone just so happened to be Jason.

Landing silently on that rooftop, but not as silently as he hoped, Jason merely glanced over his shoulder, seeing the rise and fall of Tim’s shoulders. Jason was sitting on the ledge of the complex, a lit cigarette in his hands as his hair blew in the wind.

“Hood.”

The roll of Jason’s eyes infuriated him but the chuckle he received almost tipped him over the edge.

“What’s up, Replacement?” The older man greeted, mockingly. Always mocking, never taking him seriously, and after the brat…

It just pisses him off.

Tim growled, just remembering _everything._ The way the little shit thought he owned the place, the haughty sneer on the brat’s face, how indifferent Bruce was when Damian _openly_ mocked him in front of everyone, how Dicky, dear old big brother Dick did nothing to stop him, and Tim just…he was _this_ close to snapping, ripping Bruce and Dick a new one. To stop being the bigger man and just drop everything and let them deal with it. Tim was willing to compromise, always has, always will, but compromising is a two-way street and if Bruce or Dick wasn’t going to keep that shit under lock and key, then Tim wasn’t having it.

Seeing the way Tim trembled, arms rigid and neck tense, standing there with white fury in his eyes, Jason could tell the kid needed an outlet.

And he wasn’t a stranger of anger.

“It was the brat, wasn’t it?” Tim tensed, feeling Jason’s eyes bore a hole into him. “Well, ain’t this spectacular. Little Demon Prince, with his high and mighty attitude hurt _widdle_ Timmy’s fragile heart and let me guess…Golden Boy and Big Bad Bat sided with him. Oh, do tell me I’m wrong. I just _love_ it when you show me how superior you are.” Jason mocked.

That just made Tim see red, stalking closer, knees bent, ready to pounce and it just infuriated him that Jason just didn’t seem to care.

“So, you’re what? Here to arrest me, Replacement? Take in the Big Bad Hood and get daddy’s affection? Have the favourite son come at you with hugs and kisses saying how proud of you he is and how you’re everything they want you to be? Get the brat kneel onto the ground and apologize with all 5 inches of him on how sorry he is.” Each word carefully pierced through him, taunting and ripping him apart. “Or maybe, just _maybe_ , you want to finish this feud we have, show the world who’s better. Yeah – that’s it, don’t want to be second seed for the rest of your life, I know the feeling.”

Tim’s hands curled into fists by his side, and Jason simply didn’t care, still sitting on the side of the ledge, easy-going and laughing heartily at Tim, whilst the smoke of his cigarette flittered into the sky.

“It doesn’t matter.” Tim growled, blood still pumping from the little shits _‘true blood son’_ and _‘rightful heir’_ bullshit and Jason looked so punchable.

Jason snickered, he _snickered_ at the little ball of fury and Tim’s hand inch excruciatingly close to the batarangs. “Pull that out and I’ll blow your fingers off.” Jason threatened not even looking at Tim, the joking, playful tone he had turned dark and hidden had the younger Robin backtracking slightly. “Don’t jump into fights you can’t handle kid. It’s how you die.”

Whatever self-restraint Tim had, couldn’t overshadow the urge, the animalistic need to snap.

“What?!” Tim barked, feeling his anger take over. “Like you? Like how you went against orders, cocky as all shit and got yourself killed? At least I don’t jump into a fight unprepared.”

It felt _good_ letting loose, having a target that was sitting right there waiting to be torn apart, and Tim would admit, _now,_ after everything the two brothers had been through, how ashamed of himself he is for how he acted. But Tim, back then, wanted it. The adrenaline, the thrill, the need to hurt overshadowing his own.

He expected anger, he expected frustration, threats, gunfire. Something that said he had won.

Tim did not expect Jason to look him dead in the eyes, and with a chilling tone, say –

“Oh? Are you referring to that little incident you all like to label as a ‘mishap’? That botched impromptu mission that had starry-eyed Jason buried six feet under?” A chill ran down Tim’s spine, not used to this cold and desolate Jason sitting in front of him.

And Jason wasn’t finished.

“Yeah…cause that’s what Batman said; Little failure Jason didn’t have what it takes and got himself killed.” A cold shadow enveloped Tim, feeling the other shoe about to drop. “Do you really think Batman – with all of his contingency plans and paranoia would let a half-baked, barely trained kid out as Robin? Stop it with the delusions, Replacement, it’s a little sad that you of all people still believe it.”

That stopped Tim dead in his tracks.

_No…Bruce would never do that._

His mouth opened a bit but no words found their way out. With an audible click, he shut his mouth and turned his head away in shame.

Jason was right.

The training program was intense, mind numbing, but it was effective. It made a kid of Gotham, a nobody turn into a _somebody_. Aside from schooling, they had an average of 10 to 12 hours of training a day, their diet was meticulously planned, more so for Jason as his diet focused on regaining what he had lost to malnutrition. Criminology, bio-chemistry, martial arts, parkour, weapons handling and vehicle competency; they were trained in everything Bruce deemed essential. Their first few weeks as Robin were nothing more than surveillance and casework detail.

A pool of disgrace settled uncomfortably in Tim, because Jason would have been trained until Bruce said so. That he wouldn’t be declared physically and mentally able to handle the Gotham underground without Batman’s say so.

The stories, the glass case…what the hell has he been listening to?

“What about the joker?” The words fell out of his mouth without his permission and he was met with a deep, animalistic growl in response. “Batman said – ”

“Batman – ” Jason jumped in, feral and dangerous, his fists curling tightly by his side. “doesn’t know the full story. I went to save my mother, dipshit. I went to save the one person that could potentially care for me more than that self-entitled, arrogant bastard and if it means the Joker was in the way, so _fucking_ be it.” Jason was fuming at this point, his chest rose and fell heavily, trying to hold on. “Turns out I was wrong, she wasn’t as innocent as I thought she was.”

And that wiped any hesitation Tim had.

 _This_ wasn’t on Jason’s file. Did Batman know? What history on Sheila Haywood didn’t they know for Jason to react so harshly?

Rubbing his eyes in frustration, Jason’s eyes fizzled, the fire in him slowly began to die down, but held enough strength to dare Tim to interrupt.

Tim didn’t know what came over him, he needed _something_. Something that made it all go away, something that told Jason he was wrong, and Batman was right.

Something that didn’t make him feel so… _shit_.

“But it was still reckless…” A weak and pitiful attempt, and Tim felt like an ass saying it. By the look on Jason’s face, it was a poor choice of words.

“What would you do if you were in that situation?” A rhetorical question that got Tim to shut up. “No, please. Tell me with your infinite wisdom, that if your ma ever found herself on the wrong end of a gun that you wouldn’t step in front of her and take it. Tell me, right here, right now, that you would have left her to die.”

Tim couldn’t find it in himself to answer.

Jason scoffed at the silence, and for some reason that hurt more than any injury Tim had ever sustained.

“This is why I hate all of you. You make up these stories of how I was this _hell-spawn_ , that I was insubordinate, reckless and angry, but I did _exactly_ what Batman trained me to do; To serve and protect, and then he goes and builds this fucking image of me, of how he should have never made me Robin when I did everything he wanted me to do. I didn’t get to do theatre plays at school because _Robin was more important._ I didn’t have friends because _Robin comes first_. Ever spare moment I had was spent on studying so I could keep working as _Robin._ Everything I did, every achievement I gained was for Robin, for Batman, for _him_ and then he pulls shit like that and expect me to just roll with it? Fuck him! And fuck you, Replacement, for believing in it!”

Tim flinched at the cursing. The cold wind and sirens in the night couldn’t drown out the sorrow and agony in Jason’s tone, but Jason wasn’t finished.

“I know I’m not perfect and quite frankly, I don’t give a shit if I am or not, but don’t you fucking dare come at me, batarangs blazing with your superiority complex and think you’re not fucked up as well.”

Everything in Tim wanted to scream that he wasn’t perfect, wanting to lash out and rip Jason’s throat for spouting the same questioning thought; believing Bruce didn’t love him, that his place was gone, but the logical side of him, the detective in him stepped back and was horrified that Jason was right.

After losing Jason, Bruce had doubled down on the Robin training, making sure that if Tim ever found himself in the same position Jason had been, he would have escaped. Double the armour, double the training, double the regiment, double _everything._

But Tim couldn’t deny it, Jason had hit the proverbial nail that Tim didn’t know was there. Somewhere along the line, fuelled by Bruce’s guilt and shame, constantly reminding him to be _better_ than Jason, did Tim start to believe he was.

“The difference between you and me is not because I kill, it’s because Bruce made you think you’re perfect, that you’re everything he needs, and the moment you think you’re anything less than that, you question everything you’ve ever done. I know I’m insecure, Batman has that effect on his _soldiers_ – ” Jason spat the word out with animosity, reminding Tim about a case that disgraced Jason’s name as a son, “without his approval, it feels like we’re nothing, that we weren’t worth the time and investment he made in us. So when you fuck up a mission, when he gives you that damn look of disappointment, you know which one I’m talking about, you come to me – the proverbial fuck-up – and remind me of how much of a ‘failure’ I was, just so you can get hard on knowing, at the very least, Batman loves you more.”

The declaration was razor sharp.

Tim had always known Jason had that ability, his quips and barbs were precise and merciless, remembering every time Jason towered over him, reminding him that he was a worthless imitation, that he didn’t deserve the title of ‘Robin’.

Jason Todd does not need a knife to make someone bleed.

And there was nothing Tim could do about it.

An eerie silence swept over them as Tim sat there, mouth slightly agape feeling shame and disbelief crush him in spades. Looking at the tinge of green in Jason’s eyes, how it looked like the personification of murder and Tim felt… _shitty._ Jason, in more ways than one, had been betrayed by everyone that said they loved him, that came back to a place where everything he knew was gone, and Tim had what? Expected Jason to sweep it all under the rug? Come back to the Manor and follow Bruce’s word like gospel? Throw away every sense of suspicion just because Tim said so?

Tim may not like that Jason kills, and Tim may never forgive the things he had done to his family, but he couldn’t deny that Jason had every right to feel the way he feels, to raise his guard around those that saw less of him, to separate himself from everything to retain at least _some_ semblance of control.

The scowl on Jason’s face deepened. Anger, frustration, pain wrote stories on the wrinkles of his face and the bags underneath his eyes, sending a jab of guilt into Tim’s heart. Jason looked… _human_ , tired and run down, his sweaty hair pressed thinly against his forehead had made the younger Robin realise that they had been fooling themselves with their case files and arrest warrants, putting facts over emotions –

Forgetting that there was a person underneath the hood.

Jason Todd was alive and they were blaming him for it.

Noticing the blank look on Tim’s face, Jason threw his hands into the air. “Great! I broke the kid.” Shaking his head in exasperation, Jason couldn’t find it in himself to care anymore. Without a word of goodbye, Jason left, racing through the underpass, leaving Tim to sit on that rooftop thinking –

_What if?_

Jason didn’t really want to see him again, not after that tirade, but Tim was a bat. Stubborn to a fault, Jason ended up coming back to one of his safehouses late some night, to a hoodie-clad kid billionaire sitting on his sofa with a laptop.

The fire of the pit rose once more, and Tim could tell Jason was doing everything he could to not pull his gun out and fire. Hands twitching to his side, with his neck muscles protruding menacingly, it was a wonder how he hadn’t been shot yet. They must have stared off for ages, a statue in time, until Jason, with a deep-bodied sigh, wandered into his bedroom to change clothes, leaving a confused, but elated Tim feel the heavy pulsating beats of his heart die down.

Without a word, wearing jumper three times Tim’s size, Jason plopped down beside him.

Not a word.

Not a move of acknowledgement or a side-eye glance of distain. As if Tim wasn’t there, Jason rested himself comfortably and began to read.

Judging from the awkward position Tim was in, the dim lights of the room barely managed to reveal the title. ‘The Catcher and the Rye’. A faint ghost of a smile stretched across his face before he dived into his casework.

They sat there, not speaking to each other, with only sounds of Tim’s fingers gliding across the keyboard and the soft and the steady breathing of the apartment’s owner.

_Owner…_

Tim sat there wondering about that word. He didn’t really think of it that much, an oversight that he was guilty to admit, what would it be like for a barely legal adult, raised from the dead must do to survive. Jason was legally declared _dead_. His existence gone, the life he once had was in the past, forced to do unsavoury deeds to survive, Tim felt something bubble inside him.

Jason couldn’t work, didn’t have a legal I.D, couldn’t go out in public, couldn’t go to school, constantly being chased by almost every intelligence agency on the planet. This safehouse, something that could barely be considered a home, was militaristic, orderly and kept, a quick pitstop for Jason’s next mission.

Jason was living a curse, whilst Tim and the others lived their entitled lives, surrounded by money and lawyers.

A part of him thought what it would be like if they got Jason legally declared alive. The paperwork and the press would be biblical, but it could mean so much. An _alive_ Jason, no hiding, no struggling, a way to connect Bruce and Jason together, father and son. Alfred had praised how much of a scholar Jason was as a kid, maybe now he could finish school, get his GED, go to college. Have the life that didn’t remind Jason of his death.

Because that was the problem. Every spare moment of Jason’s life, the world kept reminding him he didn’t belong. That he should be dead. Tim knows that Jason didn’t make it easy for any of them, the fights, the blood, the anger, but it didn’t fully sweep away the betrayal that Bruce didn’t _really_ try. Living with such thoughts, where everything and everyone you know saw a ghost instead of a man would crush even the strongest.

But the other part of him, the part that still feels the lingering destruction of Jason’s words knew that this was not what Jason wanted. Forcing him into the spotlight, making him interact the family out of obligation, not love, barrelling into Jason’s life, without his consent, without his right to choose and shoving their love down his throat would make him feel trapped. He would stay in Gotham out of duty, because that was the type of person he was, despite their difference, Jason was a man of duty. Jason would stay not because he wanted to, but because he _had_ to. Because in spite of his insistent need to remind them that he wants nothing to do with the family, Jason would stay if asked, _‘a good soldier’,_ eroding his stability, chipping away at his sanity until it would become too much and Jason would lash out, at them, at Bruce, at the world and he would run, never to return.

It had to be his choice.

Not theirs.

“I’m sorry.”

_I’m sorry for not doing more, for letting Bruce drag your name through the dirt, I’m sorry for believing in him, I’m sorry that you had to experience all that._

A beat of silence followed.

“I’m sorry, too.”

It was short and quiet, but to Tim, it was louder than any gunshot he has ever heard.

_I’m sorry I tried to kill you, I’m sorry I brought you in between Bruce and I’s fight, I’m sorry I called you a cheap replacement._

That was all that they said that night. A simple apology on both sides, and Tim was left to his own imagination of the future. Of what it means for both Jason and himself.

Little did he know the impact Jason had on his life, of a brother he looked up to. He cherished the bond they had, of movie nights and good-hearted pranks.

Maybe someday, they’ll have it again.

 

~

 

Dick stares at the flash drive, everything Tim has found, analysed and sorted of the Red Hood’s disappearance was on it. Listening to the soft and steady breathing of his little brother, Dick wonders where he went wrong.

He tried his best, and he never meant for it to happen. Damian needed guidance, a symbol that he could follow, but Bruce wasn’t around so it was up to him, to step up, be a big brother, someone Damian could look up to. In his quest to integrate Damian into the Manor, he had pushed Tim away.

He didn’t mean to, it just… _happened._ God, the fight when Tim found out Dick had given Damian the Robin colours, the anger, the betrayal. Tim had begged, pleaded his case but Dick, he…he didn’t mean to, but he did and let Damian hold a title, a symbol of excellence above Tim and in turn he had lost a brother. Dick knows he could have tried harder, eased Tim into seeing his point of view, but instead, it was instant and quick, without consent and Tim – wonderful, smart Timothy – begrudgingly accepted, distancing himself away, hating that Damian, even after all the attempts to Tim’s life, Dick had just given it to him.

 _That_ was something Dick will always regret, that he didn’t put a stop to Damian’s princely views sooner, trying to assassinate Tim and mocking his little brother’s existence, Dick should – he _knew_ he should – have shut that down quick and early…but he didn’t, because he deluded himself, blaming it on the League, on Ras, on Talia that Damian acts the way he does because of them, too afraid to overstep his bounds and make Damian feel that he should be _forced_ to do anything.

Dick wanted Damian to know that he wasn’t Ras, that he didn't expect Damian _had_ to do anything, that Damian now had a life to _choose_. To follow a path of righteousness. One of his own making.

And so he lost Tim.

A Tim that had turned to Jas-Hood.

He wanted it, what Tim and J…Hood has, and he hated it, how readily his little brother was willing to defend a murderer. A murderer that tried to kill him, _multiple_ times. Dick wanted what they once had; ice cream trips, past patrol chats, late night calls checking on the other, and listening to how Tim cherished those same memories with someone else had him feel…

_Jealous._

He wanted his brother back.

With the USB drive in his hands, Dick grips it with conviction, knowing that Tim will hate him, but it was for the best. They’ll take down the Red Hood, lock him up in Arkham where he belongs, and with his shadow no longer looming over them, taunting them, they’ll go back to what they were.

A family.

Looking at his sleeping brother, run down after another streak of Red Bulls and coffee, chasing after a useless hope, Dick felt his resolution set in stone.

Tim won’t understand, not now, but he will and Dick was willing to take it, the anger, the hatred, the screaming and fighting, because he’s a big brother, it’s his job. With the drive in his hands, he begins to move, going to the one person that would know what to do.

Dick will have his brother back.


	10. Reverse S

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Jason's life, he has learnt that nothing is impossible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. Thanks for reading my story. I would just like to tell you that from now on the writing style will be changing. I'm trying to copy my favourite author; Matthew Rielly, because I absolutely love his action-packed writing so I want to incorporate it into my own story.
> 
> I'll eventually change the previous chapters to fit but for now, please enjoy.

Approximately a month after the Outlaws arrest, the Justice League made a deal with the United States Government for the design and construction of an off-the-books ‘correctional’ facility that would house the most dangerous criminals within their borders.

Government contractors worked under strict orders that any and all records of such a facility would be wiped from existence. There would be no paper trail, no permits, only the discreet dispensary of incomes managed through several shell companies, routed through numerous international banks.

It doesn’t even have a name, not really.

Black Site 0474 is the only confirmed title it carries, and Jason had only found _that_ out through weeks of data mining, but whispers in the criminal underground call it a different name –

_Mortem Sanctum._

The Prison of Death.

The bigger, meaner brother of Belle Reeves.

Monitored 24/7, sanctioned and developed by the Justice League, made to be impenetrable by outsiders, Mortem Sanctum became the new hunting ground for Waller’s Task Force X. Designed for the worst of the worst, too dangerous to integrate into society, too useful to be dead.

On paper, this prison didn’t exist.

Because of that, neither did human rights.

Who, may you ask, designed such a prison?

The hypocrite Jason once called ‘dad’.

Jason had to admit, at first glance even he would have been fooled. It was very… _bland._

On the outside, it looked like a simple relay station used for ground to air communications for the American Airforce. Walled in on all four sides, with a basic security checkpoint booth, it housed a relatively sized ground floor office for communications and a giant microwave signal tower stood on the northeast quadrant of the compound.

The only thing substantial that he could spot was the massive hangar that took up most of the space just behind the office. It was large, far larger than any relay communication site needed.

Jason was getting a huge James Bond villain vibe coming out of this place.

But like any secret, its true form was underneath the surface, _literally_.

Its operation was _huge_.

An unknown number of underground levels with the tightest security known to man, it made Fort Knox look like a playpen.  CCTV cameras, heat sensors, motion detectors scanned every square foot of the joint with security checkpoints at every floor.

But the most annoying part of it all was the floorplan.

One floor, one prisoner.

Inmates were separated at all times, less chance of them setting off a riot, less chance of them conspiring to escape, in addition to the guards who were assigned to one floor and one floor _only_ , trained to restrict their one housemate, everything was specific, from where to stand, what to look out for, shift rotations and security checks.

And the prison staff were a no-go as well. Each day they were assigned a new post, too random for drop-points and too short to analyse the layout.

Basically, in laymen’s terms, it was a pain in Jason’s ass.

How does Jason know all of this?

People talk.

People _always_ talk.

Jason had spent weeks going through every digital backdoor he could find, backlogging all the money, going through every state file, every redacted signatures, combing through the entire system for crumbs.

He hacked for months, but he had finally found it…

…his skeleton key to a door that didn’t exist.

No matter how many plans Batman puts in place, no matter how much hardware he installs, he could never control the human element.

Give a man a beer and he’s your best friend, give him ten and all of the sudden, you know his entire life story, inject him with trace amounts of Benzo and he forgets the night ever happened.

Different jobs, different stories, but there was one common denominator.

It was a _vault_.

One way in, one way out.

But this was Batman, the world’s foremost expert in paranoia, the man had contingency plans for his contingency plans.

Plans that Jason intends to use against him.

In all honesty, Jason was a little nervous and he had every right to be. Patrols were ex-military, crack commandos recruited from the best of the best; Deltas, Seals, Airborne Rangers, Berets, all of whom fight the patriotic fight and had nasty trigger fingers for disobedient inmates.

Trained in the art of war, they were the cream of the crop in Black Op soldiers, who don’t ask questions and don’t care for answers.

The government points, they shoot.

The Suicide Squad was Amanda’s attack force, the guards were her war dogs.

And the guns…

State of the art, straight off the production line, they were big, bold and terrifyingly deadly. There were no such things as ‘warning shots’, just a corpse waiting to happen.

But these guns, no matter how heavy-duty they were, were not only used for keeping inmates in –

They were used to keep people out.

A hundred miles from the nearest public road, smack-dab in the middle of the Nevada desert, the prison had been placed – very deliberately – in a wide flat open field, unhindered by views of nearby mountains.

Motion and heat sensors were strategically set in several circle formations around the prison. Any fluctuations or irregular movements were immediately pinged to the security control room for review.

With sentries and an unmanned, unnamed ghost satellite staring down on its location every spare second, this prison was now considered the _single_ most heavily guarded correctional facility in the world.

No-one comes in without been seen.

And all Jason had was only a small array of equipment stuffed in his backpack.

Essentials; the bare minimum he would need to get inside the prison and get out. Everything was disposable at a moment’s notice…

…everything except the small lead-lined box fitted firmly in his combat webbing.

And yet, with everything against him, feeling the roughness of sand scrape along his body, the harshness of the sun beating down on him, why was he smiling?

Laying on the scolding hot sand, his thermal body-suit took the brunt of it. An all-terrain, heat conductive combat weave that covered his entire body, except for his eyes which were covered by a pair of anti-flash protective wraparound glasses. Laying in the harsh, unforgiving sands of the Nevada desert, Jason was wrapped in a thin arid-orange, sand coloured thermal blanket that blocked any satellite feeds of his position.

His body effortlessly blended into the barren sands.

A desert wraith, lying in wait.

His suit could help him bypass the thermal scanners, but the motion detectors were a whole _other_ problem.

Hyper-sensitive, any motion was pinged to not only the security team inside Mortem Sanctum but also sent a separate report to the Watchtower.

Any wrong moves and Jason would be the Sanctum’s newest recruit.

Which is exactly why he hired Mark Mardon, infamously known as Weather Wizard.

_“Leo’s still pissed at you, you know.”_

“I’m not surprised. I have that affect on people.” Jason gruffly answers. “How’s things on your end?”

Positioned a few clicks out, Mark had been covertly camping out at a rocky-mountain edge eyeing the sandy road that connected the main strip to a deserted public road.

And one thing Jason had learnt, lying in wait was that Mardon complained, _a lot._

_“Eh…It could be better. These damn military rations taste like shit. How the fuck do soldiers live off this?”_

Jason rolled his eyes. “I meant the convoy, dipshit. And besides, MRE’s aren’t meant to taste good, they’re for sustenance.”

 _“Sustenance can go suck the biggest bag of dicks if it means I have to eat another brick smoothie.”_ A beat of silence and scuffling is heard in his ear. _“As for the convoy, still nada.”_

“Copy that.”

Jason eyed the compound eagerly, the desert sands eerily still underneath him.

A radio transmission that had been intercepted roughly an hour ago revealing a road train of the world’s deadliest convicts heading to site. Triple-life sentences with no chance of parole, criminals and killers that stood atop of the underground circuit.

Within the confines of one armoured truck – sedated – was Jason’s ultimate prize.

Bizarro.

Two years he had waited for this moment.

Two years _Biz_ had waited for this moment.

_“You never told me how you’re getting out.”_

“Are you worried about me?” He playfully jokes.

Mardon scoffed at the question and Jason sets a firm and neutral tone. “You don’t have to worry about such details. I am paying you – quite a lot of money mind you – to help me break in. Getting out is my problem.”

 _“Oh, I know. Your problem, not mine.”_ A wholehearted agreement and Jason imagines that Mark’s shrugging his shoulders in disinterest. _“What I’m worried about is the rest of my payment. I like to know what I’m investing in will provide results.”_

Jason huffs a laugh. “Then you better do your job and follow your orders.” Chuckling at the grumble on the other end of the line.

Two days they had been waiting for this.

The moment Jason found intel that Task Force X had just moved out for another mission, Mardon and himself made themselves comfortable on the outskirts of the desert plain. They had split up the moment they arrive, Mardon taking the westward position in the mountains and Jason by the south quadrant, crawling agonisingly slowly through the sensors.

Two days of back pain, elbow marks and cold MREs.

_“I know I’ve said this already; but this is one of the dumbest snatch-and-grabs I have ever seen. The fact that I’m willingly helping you makes me just as much of a dumbass as you are.”_

“The fact that you still can’t wrap your head around the plan means its unpredictable. It means no-one could have guessed it, which means no-one will know what is happening until it’s too late.”

_“Unpredictable? You’re practically walking up there and knocking on the front door!”_

“See? Unpredictable.” Jason laughed softly.

_“More like suicidal.”_

“I’m not suicidal. Morally flippant about life? Yes. Suicidal? No.”

 _“Oh!”_ A voice burst in his ear. _“We got visual.”_

Jason’s body tensed in anticipation. The playfulness they had died immediately. “Copy that. Do your magic, Wizard.”

His heart fluttered, watching from a distance a speck of black entering his field of view. The road train looked _formidable._ Four black-painted SUV’s took the front _and_ back, navigating the rest of the convoy as it was followed by no less than _5_ armour-plated semi-trucks all carrying their prisoners of war. Each one looked deadly, spikes protruded out of its tyres with a battering ram up front and a heavy-duty minigun turret hoisted on top.

It looked like Mad Max made a baby with the Transporter.

Sleek and powerful. Elegant and brutal.

They reached the main gate quickly enough, not even bothering with the security booth as it was just a façade and moved directly to the hangar. Jason watched from afar the procedures, noticing how half the prison guards ran inside the hangar to help the field crew whilst the other half intensely trained down their sights just… _waiting_ for something to happen.

It was a terrifying silence, as Jason hoped Biz wouldn’t wake up from his sedation and hear his heartbeat.

After a beat…nothing.

That’s when he noticed something peculiar. Apart from the mechanics, no other member of staff came out of the hangar.

A grin befitting a demon appeared on his face.

_The intel was right._

A small tickle of wind hit him, and Jason’s eyes scanned the horizon.

Far out, a few clicks away, he saw the horizon shimmering, as if the landscape itself was moving. It began to dance to life, flurries of grain flying with the wind.

Shifting to a kneeling position Jason watched on, his thermal tarp hanging tightly around him.

The barren landscape began to shift, a beautiful and deadly show of mother nature taking its course as sheets of fine grains flew into the sky, twirling and dancing away. The sun dimmed against a wall of sand –

And then it started moving in.

The compound came to life, no doubt seeing the meteorology reports, and Jason watched with keen interest on how they moved, what they did, who they talked to. Anything that wasn’t bolted down was moved inside, the security booth was quickly abandoned.

A wave of sand crashed down onto the facility, sprays of sand began rattling windows, the wind catcher fluttering with dire consequence as it battled the raging storm of mother nature.

But Jason never moved.

_Waiting._

The winds moved out and like a large blanket of arid yellow grains, it covered the sky. Behind his anti-flash glasses, Jason looked up and smiled keenly.

The sun was now blocked.

Dark and unforgiving.

Throwing away his thermal tarp, the thin sheet flew aimlessly into the desert, never to be seen again, and Jason watched out at the outlines of the desert turned into one big cascade of brownish grey.

Jason _sprinted_.

Hard and fast.

The sand battered him like incredibly small shrapnel rounds, ripping into him, stinging him relentlessly, but he charged on.

A deadly tactic, one that could cost him his life but the rewards outweighed the risks. Cameras, satellites, heat-sensors, motion detectors, even visual outposts could not spot him in the wall of rich, brown sand.

The raging winds wobbled him side to side, but he held on, pushing hard, never stopping, never faltering, _exactly_ like he trained.

The power of nature versus the power of man.

His heart hammered inside, and his legs burned with a raging fire, but if it was torture to press forward, it was death to stop.

The storm kept rising, like some force of god, it pelted into him, staggering him and he could _feel_ it. Powerful, godly winds breaking into him, cramming into whatever gaps he has. It filled the nooks in his clothes, flooding the space of his gear, even the finest particles finding their way through his clothes into his skin.

Irritating and gritty.

As the concrete wall blearily came into view, Jason pulled out a set of high density, spring-loaded pitons out of his bag. Often used by mountain climbers, it was a two-pronged steak that _drove_ into cliff-face walls, lodging firmly in for mountaineers to use as a ladder.

One by one, he drove them in – _wham-wham-wham-wham_ – making quick work of the wall. Racing to the top he hurled himself over, never missing a beat and kept running, past the ground office, past the main hangar, all the way to –

The Radio Tower.

Vaulting over the pitiful, wire-mesh fence, he began to scale the behemoth by hand. The winds were at its peak, an overwhelming force of hot and arid grains and Jason was having trouble seeing the next metal rung.

The further up he climbed, the deadlier it became.

Air became oppressive, thick and laden. His heart clenched _feeling_ the entire tower begin to sway, unable to compete with the overwhelming onslaught. It creaked and groaned, and Jason was starting the feel as bad as it sounded.

His fingers strained, feeling like they were going to tear off just from the _sheer_ pressure, and –

His feet gave way.

“Oh, you cocksucker!” He screamed.

Parallel to the ground, he held on painfully to the mercy of the sand. It battered into his fingers, lashing at him to let go, to accept his fate. The hot air dried out his throat. He licked his lips behind his mask, feeling the cracks form.

But it was his arms that hurt the most. Burning with damnation, his muscles began to slowly tear, fibres ripping away.

It ached, feeling his blood tiredly pump into his fingers, forcing his head into the game, he pulled.

Waves of wind blasted into him, jolting him back, but he kept pulling, kept going forward, until he could reach out with his other hand.

There was no fear in his actions, no hesitation in his movements, he had trained _everyday_ on that cliff face in Matera for this moment. He trained and trained until he was broken and bloodied and exhausted, and then kept on training until he _knew_ – without a doubt in his mind – that he could do this, that he could do what was necessary to win.

He trained, struggling, fighting, remaking himself into something more.

Jason is a survivor, always is, always will be and a little wind is not getting in his way.

Tentatively, he gripped on the bars with his other hand with an iron strength, flinging his feet back underneath him and released a breath of air he didn’t know he was holding.

Jason Todd was still in the game.

As he made his way up, even with his body armour, the constant blasts of sand were getting to him, filling the cracks of his clothes, course and grainy, slowing him down and Jason knew he had to move faster.

_One-two._

_One-two._

_Left-right._

_Left-right._

Finally, he reached the top, right next to the satellite antennas. It was hard to see, with the condensation in his protective glasses, but he shook off the annoyance. Flinging his backpack around, he pulled out two rectangular-blocks and stuck them firmly against the sheeting.

Hugging the support pillar firmly, Jason flicked the primer on, seeing the faint light of a pale red blink away.

Scurrying down the tower, he gazed up, squinting his eyes to see the two blocks were still firmly stuck on, but to no avail. The sandstorm was too rough. His eyes could barely see past his fingertips.

Yet, nothing happened.

No puff of smoke, no outward explosion, not even a sound.

Because nothing was supposed to happen, not to the naked eye, at least.

Because these weren’t bombs.

Electro-magnets.

Capable of holding up to 1200 pounds of pull force as it jammed itself neatly onto the satellite receiver, screwing up the conduction and magnetism of the antenna itself. The sandstorm blocked most of the ingoing and outgoing Electro-Magnetic Radiation emitted from the compound, but Jason would be a fool to think that was enough.

When surveying the scene, Batman would have known about the events of sandstorms disrupting radio signals, so he built a more powerful and direct line between this radio tower and the unnamed satellite.

The sandstorm helped but Jason finished the job.

Cut off from the rest of the world, the Prison of Death had just gone dark.

And no-one knew why.

 

~

 

Officer Daniels was not a man that took bullshit well. Once part of Delta 7 – an elite crack team within the Deltas, the best of the best – Daniels had come to enjoy the strictness of rules and more importantly –

Common sense.

At 6 foot 1, 198 pounds, and a deadly glare to match, he was not a man to be fucked with.

After the convoy had parked inside the hangar bay, the field team rushed out, guns trained on the semis and began pulling their sedated convicts out one by one.

The worst the United States had to offer.

Placed on medical beds, they all hurried onto the massive elevator platform in the middle of the hangar bay and descended downwards. Daniels never got tired of the sight, how a labour force under the constant scrutiny of the Batman created such a behemoth of concrete and electrical wiring that now laid out of sight, right underneath his feet.

The elevator platform was massive, large enough to park 9 MWMIK attack vehicles – a rapid assault and fire support vehicle which earned itself the codename; _Jackal_ – in a grid layout.

If the platform was big, the floor layout was _massive._

15 Subterranean levels of the highest security known to man, it even had some alien tech mixed in. Even with his position has Ground Floor Team Leader, even he did not have access to the prisoner floors, only subjected to the medical labs, recreational floors and sleeping quarters.

The hidden message was clear; _Everybody watches everybody._

As the field team and the inmates was lowered down, a ground floor boom gate closed above them, effectively making it seem as if the platform had never moved. Daniels went through the usual rounds, confirming with the Monitoring Division in the security room.

The sound of faint banging caught his attention.

Gazing inquisitively around, he noticed all 5 of his 5-man team up in the hangar bays, going over protocol.

Searching around, the banging grew louder as he neared the main boom gates of the hangar.

He frowned, wondering what was happening.

“M.D, come in, M.D.”

Nothing.

“M.D, come in, M.D.”

Still nothing.

_Oh, the sandstorm._

Daniels sighed, changing the radio frequency to a short-range signal that was inbuilt into the complex.

It was basic protocol, in an event of a sandstorm, all guards must switch to a local radio channel used for short range communications within the compound. Linking up to the central mainframe, it passes through the internal security team monitors before relaying communications to the receiver.

It didn’t last long, too iffy with the amount of concrete blocking each floor, with a serious delay for passing through so many systems, but for now it was all he had.

“This is ground team leader, G.O-152, calling for an officer within the Monitoring Division. I repeat; this is ground team leader, G.O-152, calling for an officer within the Monitoring Division, come in.”

_“M.D-005 received. What’s the situation, team leader?”_

“I’ve got an unidentifiable noise on the other side of the hangar doors, could you pull up the security cams out front?”

A quick _“Copy that”_ was uttered and in the background, Daniels heard a flurry of typing. _“G.O-152, the storms picked up too much, I can’t see much. Outline suggests one of our own trying to get in. He looks desperate.”_

“The fuck?” Daniels reeled back, bewildered. “Then why can’t he get in?”

_“The sandstorm is probably interfering with the facial recognition and palm scanner. Radio signal is busted, too much weather movement for it to work. No point in using the short-range signal either, he won’t be able to hear much in that. I can’t contact him.”_

An audible sigh.

“All my boys are inside, who else could it be?”

 _“Must be one of the guards from the decoy office.”_ A reply came back.

“What kind of fucking idiot would run out in this shitstorm?” He heard a grunt of approval.

_“You can tear him a new one when he gets in. Entrance override has been set.”_

“Copy that, M.D.”

Daniels sighed in annoyance, watching the hangar doors slowly open. A blast of wind and sand shot into him, quickly followed by an exhausted body, dropping into the ground. He must have been out there for ages, judging by the amount of sand clinging to him.

With a few quick numbers on the internal keypad, the heavy boom gates began to close.

Stepping forward towards the lying body, Daniels has had enough of this guy’s shit than to deal with him being unconscious as well. “Oi!” He lightly kicked with his boot. “Get the fuck up.”

The rest of the ground floor boys come by surrounding the lying figure.

Daniels stared at the ceiling in annoyance.

He kicked once again, slightly harder this time, in the ribs. “Get up!” He ordered.

A groan was his answer.

Now he was pissed.

“Turn this cocksucker over.” He ordered his men.

Two boys came up, roughly grabbing one of the guy’s shoulders and pulled him over. Daniels’ face became ashen at the sight of a small-round object falling from the guy’s waist.

“Grenade!” Daniels yelled.

Everyone dived out of the way.

Daniels scurried behind a nearby SUV, waiting for the inevitable bang.

Nothing.

Apart from the flickering lights, there was nothing.

No unearthly _boom_ , no cloud of dust, no shrapnel.

They peered out of their hiding spot, wondering what was going on.

Team Leader Daniels was the first to respond. Bringing his hand to his ear, he shouted. “M.D! Ground Floor has been breached! I repeat; Ground Floor has been breached! Initiate lockdown protocol until further advised!”

_Static._

Daniels’ face paled.

It wasn’t a grenade.

It was a short-range EMP charge.

Before he could process it all, the lying figure bolted upright and charged at them.

His five-man ground team, made up of the best of the best, trained in every discipline of the military, were like confetti to this intruder. Bodies flew around like ragdolls, the sickening sounds of fist and skulls echoed within the hangar walls.

Daniels rushed in, looking down the barrel of his G36 ready to pull the trigger.

What he saw put the fear of god into him.

His men were _decimated._

Lying unconscious on the floor, like puppets without strings, without a single bullet wound on them. All of them were taken out instantly by hand to hand combat.

Peering down his scope, he saw the sleek sharpness of a blade hurtling towards him.

Rolling out of the way, he readied once again but the man in black combat uniform was already on him, gazing him down like a hawk.

Only a hawk waits for its prey.

He didn’t.

A fist collided with his chin and he felt as if he had been hit by a sledgehammer.

His legs wobbled underneath him but he wasn’t given any time to rest.

Another shot to the ribs had him doubling over, coughing desperately for air. His eyes boggled in pain, fear creeping slowly into the fibres of his very being.

The tactical bullet-proof vest he was wearing could handle a point-blank shot from a FN Five-Seven, because it was designed by the _fucking Batman_ , and a punch took him down.

Mouth wide, gasping for air, a hand roughly grabbed him by his throat, pulling him back up. “Where is the central junction box?”

“F-f-fuck…yo – ”

His head is slammed into the ground.

Daniels struggles, kicking his legs out and swinging his arms…

…it doesn’t stop the feeling of a needle going into his neck.

“What you just felt is a drug called; NK-948. A neural dis-inhibitor. I’m sure someone of your training and rank would know what that means.” The guy’s voice is crisp, young, even for a soldier, but Daniels could tell he was experienced.

No hesitation in his voice, it was cool, calm and collected.

His heart plummeted, hearing the information.

A disinhibiting drug.

_Truth Serum._

“Now, tell me – ” The soldier demanded, “Where is the central junction box?”


	11. Promises Kept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dead man walks into a prison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all. Sorry that I didn't post sooner, uni was a bit full on. Just a quick FYI, I might not be able to post the next chapter for a while. Sorry.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy this one.

Samantha Wesley isn’t really someone that enjoys babysitting. It was the job for college undergrads finding a way to make ends meet. Not for trained and disciplined officers within Homeland Security.

‘Demeaning’ was the word she would use.

She had heard the speech, how it’s such an ‘important task’, how there was ‘no-one’ out there who could handle such a responsibility, but the speech that really struck a nerve, that made her existence feel miniscule and expendable - ‘You are doing your country proud’.

That one got to her.

The kid was… _nice._ Which was an odd contrast to her hitman of a father. Bubbly, cheerful, her bright smile and brighter eyes made Samantha’s job less shittier than it already was.

Being a middle-school teacher was _not_ how she envisioned her life would go. Her days were simple. Eat, sleep, report and protect. No deviation, no holidays, families and friends are figments of the past.

There was only the mission.

Zoe Lawton.

Cute kid. Dangerous father. A lethal mix.

But Sam wasn’t too worried. Floyd was locked up in some hole, guarded 24/7 by the best of the best. It would take a monster to break him out.

Her thoughts were dragged back into reality, a colourful glimmer past the windows caught her attention.

Elegance and grace incarnate, Wesley instinctively sat up straight.

The woman was beautiful.

A set of thin sunglasses covered her eyes, but she had an air of dignity about her. Hair in a bun, with a floral green knee-high dress and the way her sun-kissed skin glowed with the afternoon light had Sam gaping.

What’s a woman like her doing in a place like this?

She pondered a little more, secretly admiring this newcomer like a piece of meat, until the school bell rung. And like a wave, children barrelled outside, running away from their daily prisons to enjoy the last few hours of sunlight.

All except Zoe.

Two separate cars, one for Samantha and one for Zoe travelled back to their little suburban hideaway. They lived right across from one another. Safer that way. Faster response times. Zoe’s two parents – WITSEC agents – played their part as they brought their daughter into the home.

Something always hurts inside whenever Sam watches. How the spark in Zoe’s eyes seemed to waver. It wasn’t fair on the kid, to be denied a childhood. She should be out there, with the other kids, running around, getting dirty, maybe even the odd fight or two.

She shouldn’t have to pay for her father’s crimes.

But Batman was Batman. Amendment that no outside contact is to be _ever_ established until time allowed it.

 _“How long was long enough?”_ Sam thought.

This WITSEC program was top tier. They had built an entirely new protection program just for Zoe and other’s like her. A whole chain of command under the direct authority of the Justice League.

She didn’t like it. She didn’t like the fact that she was an accomplice to ruining a kid’s childhood.

But orders were orders, and it was the job Samantha was assigned.

A job, no matter how much she hates it, she intends to do well.

Speaking of…

Sam’s brows creased, as she hadn’t received her check-in notification. Standard protocol for when the target enters secure holding.

The realisation hit her like a dump truck. “Oh, fuck.”

She bolted through her front door, with a gun in hand, uncaring of public eyes. Her heartbeat was at an all time high as she reached the WITSEC safehouse.

Hiding by the side of the door, straining to hear _anything_ , a cold sweat ran down her cheek knowing it was too late.

Kicking the door down, gun trained, her heart stopped cold. Her two agents were both unconscious on the ground.

And Zoe was nowhere in sight.

 

~

 

She looks at the communicator with utter distain. A League communicator. Like she was Batman’s personal bellboy.

Waller had received a notification, not a few seconds ago, about an Officer Daniels logging into the elevator platform 10 minutes before hand.

Finding out all systems on ground floor had been destroyed found Amanda raging up a storm.

Security cameras showed a scrambled face exiting on the recreational floors, heading to the West Wing, towards the Boiler Room.

Which has now put her in a dangerous position. On one hand, all breaches were to be notified to the League immediately, on the other; _fuck Batman._ She despised him, how he works, how he operates, looking down on her like she doesn’t know how to do her damn job.

Gotham births freaks and one of them decided to be a superhero.

The Boiler Room’s security feed popped up and Waller was rewarded with an interesting sight. The facial scrambler had been disengaged, and a manic grin found its way onto her face.

That chiselled jawline, and the strong robotic movements.

“Why hello, Jason.”

Waller frowns wondering how he’s doing all of this.

Hidden behind anti-flash goggles, she surmised he had used the sandstorm to his advantage. A bold and deadly tactic, but apparently it worked. From the security team, an EMP blast destroyed their eyes and ears.

That’s how he got in…. but how is he getting out?

From his combat weave, he pulls a small metal box out and Waller couldn’t help but grin.

“Clever boy.”

Lead-line, she surmises, which explains how it didn’t pop up in any of the X-ray monitors posted at each floor’s entrance. From the camera position, it was hard to make note of its contents, but she did see a small object, tightly wrapped in what seemed to be Aluminium.

This time she had a full-blown smile on her face, her eyes beaming with malicious intent.

Unknown to the common populace, electronic devices can be safeguarded against EMP charges ahead of time. Sealed within an airtight plastic bag, wrapped heavily within Aluminium foil, the erratic burst charge is conducted _around_ the plastic bag, but never in.

He thought through each step _thoroughly._

Pulling a cube-like device out, he quickly went to work attaching it to the main electrical circuit.

“What are you up to?” She asked absentmindedly, shuffling closer to the screen.

Grabbing the radio, “Put the facility on lockdown and send a team up to level 1. Flush him out, but _do not kill him_. I want him alive.” She ordered, a fierce grin on her face. A Robin, _ex-_ Robin, but a Robin nevertheless under her control.

A loaded gun, perfect for her use.

_“Yes, Ma’am.”_

The Red Hood at her disposal. A torturous dream that has haunted her since the day she was appointed Director, forced to listen to the League’s naïve and childish views of the world.

What does an Alien know about humans? What does an ancient warrior know about present society? What does a rich brat that plays dress up with his daddy’s money know about human lives?

It was almost tantalising, how important Jason was. Trained by Batman but was a killing machine. The best of both worlds.

A game changer.

Waller couldn’t stop smiling.

And that’s when she heard it… _the screams._

 _“Holy shi –”_ Static _._

 _“He’s inside! I repeat, he’s –”_ Static.

 _“We need back –”_ Static.

_“He’s not human!”_

Static.

Silence, only to be filled with the lifeless cackle of the radio.

The CCTV loop of the boiler room suddenly stopped, changing over to the control room.

Her Monitoring Division were _annihilated._

Bodies were strewn across the floor like ragdolls, computers were trashed in an ungodly mess.

Waller cursed at herself, because for a moment, he had fooled her too.

The cube, it was a trojan router.

 _That_ was why he went for the Central Junction Box first. She was a fool, a damn fool, thinking he just wanted access to the electricity main, but he went one step further.

_He went for the cameras._

A magician’s sleight of hand.

First the radio signals.

Then the cameras.

Now, the entire system.

The control room had _already_ been taken.

She watched as Jason pulled up the prison schematics, a blur of data coming onto the screen. All 15 levels – from the mess hall all the way to the Pits – the _entire_ network under his control in seconds.

Waller wasn’t surprised as he continued to play with her system like it was nothing, pulling up floor schematics, deleting the remote access protocols and rerouting all the security protocols to his Holo-pad.

Effective and efficient.

With both the central junction box and security systems inside the control room under his command, on paper, everything was working properly.

In one fell swoop, Jason had just turned Black Site 0474 into his own personal playpen.

Waller didn’t even bother trying to go through her office doors, knowing that she had become one of the many prisoners she once governed over.

Jason was swift, clinical and _precise_. He knew what he wanted, and he knew exactly how to achieve it.

“Well played, Jason.” Waller slumped into her chair. “Well played.”

But something had her mind thinking. Jason was efficient, his work was practically poetry, yet she couldn’t help to feel this little niggling feeling in the back of her head. The camera feed to the control room… _why was it still playing?_

It was impractical, leaving the feed open, letting her watch him work, knowing there was nothing she could do. And then it all seemed so obvious…

He was using her to send a message to Batman.

“I’m not playing your little game, brat.” She cursed. Like hell she was going to let _anyone_ play her for a fool. Like hell she is going to sit there and have Batman breath down her neck. Like hell she’s going to be someone’s patsy.

But he wasn’t done with his game.

A light flicker and he was nowhere in sight. Goddamn Bats and their theatrics. Amanda glances over at the Communicator one more time. Pros and cons balancing precariously in her head.

She could capture Jason. Override the comms and send every man they had to her position. But it was a risk, a _huge_ risk. Jason already had access to the security protocols. One flick of a finger and every inmate could walk out and cause hell.

Apparently, Jason made the decision for her.

“Did you enjoy my show?”

She swore. She didn’t hear him enter.

Looking up from her computer, she was met with a barrel of a gun. Behind, dressed in his black combat weave, eyes covered behind anti-flash glasses, was Jason. All 6 foot 2 inches. Built like a damn brickhouse, his shoulders seem bigger than she remembered.

“I would have made an appointment, but your secretary was a bit of a bitch.” He jerked a nod at the camera feeds. “Decided the direct approach would be the best.”

“You could have knocked.” She says, buying time to think.

“And where would be the fun in that?”

“You’ve gotten slow.” She smiles venomously. “A few of my men got to the radio before you took them out. Armed squadrons are coming to me position as we speak.”

Jason stayed silent, but his smirk said everything. It was a look that Amanda absolutely loathed. He knew something she didn’t, and he wasn’t going to tell her.

“I’m impressed.” She admits begrudgingly. Rightfully so, Jason doesn’t respond, keeping his gun trained on her.

A tense silence fell onto the room. The cold steel shining horrifically in the dim lighting. As if reading her mind, Jason orders. “Don’t move.”

She moved.

_Blam!_

The communicator shatters into a million pieces, a charring hole where it once laid. “Why does no-one listen when I say don’t move?”.

She visibly growls, fingers mere inches away from being shot off. “I’m going to enjoy putting a leash on you.”

“Says the one with a gun to her head.” Jason retorts back.

“You will be my greatest achievement, Jason.” Her eyes narrow, gleaming at her prize. “Batman is too obstinate, his moronic idea of morals is too naïve for this world we fight in, but _you_ …The Red Hood, the Dead Robin, you were the one I always wanted.”

“That doesn’t sound rapey at all.” He sarcastically commented.

“I promise I’ll be gentle.” She rolled her eyes, leaning further back in her chair. “I even prepared a floor for you. A cryo-thermal, blast resistant, straight jacket suspended in animation, only to be awoken whenever I desire.”

Jason merely snarled in defence. “I’m honoured.”

Waller rolled her eyes at the dramatics. “Think what you will, Jason. But I always get what I want. The Red Hood, scourge of the underworld, connections, resources, reputation… _skills_. All tightly wrapped with a bow tie on top, just for me.”

Jason didn’t respond, his hand gripping the pistol tight. Oh, how easy would it be to just blow her brains out right now?

He hated it, he _loathed_ it, how bastards like her and Batman think that he is something to be controlled, to be played with, moulded into something they want.

Jason loved being Robin, he really did, but deep down he knew it wasn’t for him. It was Dick’s, always Dick’s. Tim and Damian, they got Dick’s consent to wear those colours, all Jason got were fist fights and screaming matches.

It was only a few months before the explosion that Dick had finally conceded, giving him the title. First time he called him ‘Little Wing’, as well. In that moment, in that space in time, Jason felt like he belonged.

Not controlled but _welcomed._

The first and last ‘brotherly’ bonding they ever had.

“But more than your skills, or connections or resources, I could easily get all that at a drop of a hat, no, you have something I want, something I can’t imitate, something that made you so effective as an undisputed king of the Gotham underground – ”

“I’m dead.” He finishes.

She dipped her head. “The perfect black ops soldier. To the natural world order, you don’t exist. No flag on your shoulder, no country to your name, a ghost that can go where the military can’t.”

A dead man waiting to happen.

With no prior records, family ties, or legal status of any kind, Jason was the ideal patsy when things go south, and the United States government needed to cut all ties. They’ll reap the rewards, but he will have to bear the consequences.

Amanda’s perfect plan.

The ultimate expendable soldier.

“I will get what I want, Hood.”

Jason huffed a laugh. “And I live to defy expectations… ‘sides, Batman wouldn’t want me being held here with Biz – too risky – he’ll ship my ass off to Arkham.” Jason watched the way Waller griped the armchair with a furious vice. “Can’t have you go against your boss, now can we?”

“I don’t answer to Batman.” She snarled.

The reaction intrigued him.

It was almost instinctual how easily she broke character. Like it was a constant battle for her, the feeling of fear creeping in, and Jason knew personally what fear did to someone.

_You hate what you fear._

Just because the Justice League and the United States Government made a deal doesn’t mean it’s all sunshine and roses between the two. Diplomacy or not, it was clear Waller was _not_ wearing the pants in this relationship.

She was desperate.

Waller didn’t merely want him, she _needed_ him.

A power play, a way to even the playing field, a bargaining chip. She was the warden, but the League were the landlords, she answered to them. One wrong move and she would have to full force of the Justice League coming down on her ass. But with Jason on her side – with an encyclopedia of superhero secrets in his pretty little head – she would propel herself onto the high table, a military superpower that even the Justice League wouldn’t dare to touch.

This entire time she has been on the back foot, reacting to Batman’s demands but with _this_ , with Jason at her disposal…

…she would finally have something she could lord over the Batman with.

Jason scoffed, “sure you don’t.”

The scowl he earned warmed his cold, dead heart. “Act all cock-sure as much as you want, but I still have the clone’s life dangling in the palm of my hands, so I suggest that you think _very_ carefully about your next decision.” Waller moves her hand, hovering above a keypad. “Either be the little obedient bitch you are and put down the gun, or you’ll be picking up his brain matter with a tweezer.”

Jason stands there, silent and still, gun still aimed between her eyes.

She smiles sadistically, thinking she has him on the back ropes.

“You won’t kill him.”

That threw her.

Recovering quickly, she practically snarled at him. “I don’t take orders from a pissant, daddy issue degenerate like you.” Jason merely raised an eyebrow at the colourful language.

“Oh, you will.” He said, sliding his finger over the trigger, feeling the comfortable weight at his fingertips. “Two reasons.”

She scoffed, body taut in defiance. “And what would that be?”

Jason steps forward, gun level to her head. “It’s an empty threat.”

Her defiance falters.

“I mean, sure you _could_ kill him, you certainly have the means but will you? I don’t think so.” He flippantly says. “I know you, _darling,_ in the two years where I’ve been… _gone_ , I reinvented myself, if you will. Went back to the drawing board, swept the slate clean, and I learnt a lot over the past couple of years.”

His voice is flippant and abrasive, but his hand remains steadily trained on the bridge of her nose.

A _clean_ kill.

“I was already good at reading people, when you work with Batman so much it’s kind of expected, but I made it better, I _became_ better. So much so that I know – without a doubt in my mind – that you won’t harm Biz. Because you know in the bottom of your cold, dead heart that if you do, what’s to stop me from killing you?”

Waller couldn’t deny it.

“Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want you to kill him, kinda ruins the whole point of me being here, and I know how much of a mega-bitch of pettiness you are, but the safety of Biz is the only thing standing between you and a bullet and _I know_ there is no way in hell you would risk your only trump card for a brief moment of satisfaction.”

He steps forward once again, the barrel of the gun uncomfortably close to her left eye that she could almost see the metal gleam of the bullet inside.

A life for a life.

Her fingers floated over the detonator, but she couldn’t hide the way it trembled.

“What’s the second point?” Jason cocked his head to the side. “You said there were two reasons why I wouldn’t kill your poor excuse of a Kryptonian.” Her eyes were defiant, but Jason knew fear when he saw it.

“Oh, that…” In an instant, he spun the gun in his hand and pistol-whipped her temple.

Her head snapped suddenly to the side, the room turning deathly silent only to be interrupted by a loud _thud_ as her body fell to the ground.

“I’m faster than you, you fat bitch.”

It would have been so easy just to pull the trigger, splatter her brain matter all over the office walls, but he opted for the less lethal method.

No matter how pissed off he was at her, no matter how much Waller would deny it, she was merely another one of Batman’s pawns. Jason’s beef was with Bruce, Waller can live to die another day.

And who’s to say Jason must be the one to kill her.

Pushing her limp body out of the way, Jason went to work on the main computer, pulling up everything he could about the facility.

Waller wasn’t dumb enough to entrust the control room with all the prisoner files. She was Batman in that regard, totally untrusting, even from her own bosses.

_Everyone watches everyone._

No-one had full access, no-one except Waller that was.

A separate ghost file hidden deep inside her personal computer, and Jason felt like a kid in a candy store skimming over all the non-redacted files. As he looked through, a particular one caught his interest.

Hidden out of sight, it was a list of contingency plans Batman had installed in case the prison ever fell apart.

And Jason was going to abuse the hell out of it.

He could just imagine Bruce’s constipated face when the bastard finds out.

And then Bizarro’s file popped up and all Jason saw was red.

Jason trembled in fury, nostrils flaring up, hands clenched so tight feeling his fingernails dig through his gloves into his skin.

 _Research_.

The longest surviving Bizarro clone to ever exist.

And they were using him as a lab rat.

The anger, the pain, that burning sensation in his lungs, it took over him like a second personality, wanting to unleash its wraith. Biz…Two years, two fucking years, Biz was subjected to… _this_ and Jason couldn’t do a thing to help.

Biz wasted two years of his limited life strapped on an operating table, poked and prodded, subjected to hell when he could have been home, with Jason, with Artemis, sipping hot cocoa and playing videogames.

This was not the life he should be living.

It’s barely a ‘life’.

All Jason could do was breathe. Deep, shuddering, laborious breaths was all he could manage without ripping the entire prison brick by brick, body by body until it was nothing more than a pile of dust and bones beneath his fingertips.

He wanted his pound of flesh.

_Batman._

“Just you fucking wait, Bruce.” Jason swore. “You started this war. I’m gonna fucking finish it.”

Closing his eyes, clenching his hands together, Jason felt the unearthly tingle in his blood rise up, snarling and thrashing around. Venomous green, the poison inside him bubbles away, barely restrained.

Swallowing the growing bile in his throat, Jason forced himself to calm down, to think of the silver lining of it all.

As much as he hated it, as much as Jason wanted to drag each and every single one of those scientist into a stasis-pod and make them choke on the very research papers they made, Jason had to admit – at the bottom of his cold, dead heart – that he was grateful for it.

Biz’s DNA was incredible unstable, deteriorating at an alarming rate and in their search for knowledge, the scientists had to find a way to keep him alive.

A dead weapon was a useless weapon.

“Stick to the plan. Stick to the plan.”

He repeated it like a mantra, never losing sight of his mission.

Biz’s safety came first, above all else.

Going through the floor layouts, Jason had to admit the prison had impeccable security protocols. The top three floors; recreational floor, the laboratory, and the warden/security floor were easy enough to get to.

But the prisoner floors were nigh-impenetrable.

Vault doors had a central heating system that detected unknown heat-signatures, which automatically shuts down the entire prison. Triple lock system, with a rotating encrypted password and mandatory 10-minute guard reports meant Jason couldn’t get in and out fast enough without sounding the alarms.

And that was just the door.

X-ray monitors, motion analysers, fingerprint and retina scans covered each floor.

And the guards…

Each prisoner was assigned to one floor, and each guard was assigned to one prisoner and one prisoner _only._ Uniforms were noticeably different from each other with specific colours and sigils stitched onto their combat weaving.

Any officer found on a wrong floor will be apprehended and interrogated without question, _shot_ if necessary.

So how does one get access to a cell without sounding the alarms?

He doesn’t.

Pulling up prisoner schedules, Jason smirks and hurries out of the office, moving up to the medical centre. With both the security room and warden’s office under his control, no-one could tell him apart in his black combat weaving, quickly overriding access protocols to the laboratory floor.

Scientists and their research. They had to keep their guinea pig in tip-top shape.

Jason made his way, quickly and efficiently. Eyes down, shoulders tall, no-one battered an eyelid as he passed by. His heart began to beat a little faster as he approached the laboratory bay doors. With quick inputs, the new code let him in with ease and he was immediately hit with that weird hospital clean smell.

Almost like bleach, it wrapped onto him like a second skin, but Jason pushed through. Breathing through his nose, getting used to it quickly.

Assessing the situation, Jason was loving his odds.

From what he could gather, Biz was hooked up to a stasis pod, wires and tubes coming protruding out of him. A transparent green liquid was slowly injected into him, had Jason seeing red.

 _“Two guards by the door. Standard issue. Four either side of the pod and another two guarding the coats.”_ Jason listed off quickly, checking his ammo.

The formation was commendable, but it had one simple flaw. Their guns were trained inwards. Designed to keep lab rats in, not keeping them out.

_Breathe in. Breathe out._

Rushing in, arms outstretched, the light harden plastic-based tranquiliser nailed the 2-man team by the doors. They hadn’t even dropped to the ground before Jason pushed through, deadly and precise.

6 men, 6 shots.

Yelps of surprise was met with a sedative to the neck, another two shots rang out, dropping the two scientists closest from Bizarro. The third scientists learned from the other mistakes and leapt out of the way, bolting for the alarms.

_Click._

Out of ammo.

As quick as a whip, Jason whirled around, pulling a knife from his waistband and threw with extreme accuracy. The scientist screamed in pain, clutching his hand as pools of blood seeped out.

Pinned _into_ the table.

The alarm switch just desperately out of reach.

“Fuck!” Tears of pain streamed down his face. “You bastard. Do you have any idea who I am?” He kept screaming, obscenity after obscenity.

Passive as ever, Jason merely reloaded another cartridge and fired.

Barely 10 seconds and the testing room turned _quiet._ Stepping over bodies, Jason made his way to Bizarro, who twisted and turned in the pod, fighting against the sedatives. Jason made quick work, emptying the water chamber and like a sound of victory, a pnueamatic _hiss_ rung out.

Biz collapsed.

Jason just managed to catch him. “Oof.” He struggled. “Gotta lay off the burgers, buddy.”

“Am sorry.” His voice was weak, laboured, and Jason slowly navigated him to a bench. The drugs must have been mixed with sedatives, Jason figured.

“Shh.” Jason sooths, brushing the clone’s wet hair. “Sleep. It will be quicker that way.”

Like words of magic, Biz quietens down as the heart-beat monitor beeped slowly and evenly. With whatever strength he had remaining, Biz locked onto Jason, a tired smile on his lips.

“Red Him came.”

Cradling his head, Jason’s breath is taken away, staring at the hope in Biz’s eyes, at the man that promised him he would be there for him – forever and always.

“Always, buddy. Always.”

“Sleep, I’ll be right here.” He soothes, stroking his hair just like how his mother did to him all those summers ago. Biz’s eyes flutter, wanting to argue, but the serum is taking effect, and Jason can’t have his little brother unfocused on the mission.

“I’ll be fine, B. _We’ll_ be fine. I’m not leaving you again.”

Bizarro quietens down at that.

And like that, the lab turns into utter silence.

Jason waits, eerily silent in a medical lab turned warzone, and he feels the slight tingle in his spine as his hands twitch in anticipation.

It’s not ideal, taking his sweet time waiting for Biz to wake up. Every second meant doom and Jason didn’t have the time to spare, but he forces himself to stay still regardless.

Genetic Bioengineering is not his strongest subject and he couldn’t risk waking Biz up early, not without fully knowing what the drugs and experiments have done to his friend. Biz was safe, that was all that mattered.

Safe, asleep, _real_.

Not a dream, or a figment of his imagination. Jason cherishes the way Biz’s hair flutters in his hand. The coolant cold against his skin.

Staring at his friend, Jason tensed as he felt the haunting sensation of a blade slowly gliding onto his right shoulder.

“Red Hood, I presume?”


	12. Great Escape

Easing his hold of Biz’s head, he straightens his back slowly, feeling the sword glide along his shoulder. The glint of hardened steel at the edge of his vision. “Don’t move.” The soft, asianic voice ordered.

Jason’s never really been good at following orders he doesn’t like.

He moved slowly, hands up, eyes carefree and humoured. Following the long, sleek blade, his eyes met the toned curves, clad in dark modern samurai armour of Tatsu Yamashiro. Impeccably postured, eyes dark and stormy with her black hair neatly formed behind her mask.

Dark and mysterious.

The governing hero in a band of misfits and expendable rejects. A Batman level combatant…

_Perfect._

“How did you know I was down here?” Breaking the tense silence.

Her eyes are laser sharp, the blade hauntingly close to his throat. “I didn’t. But when a superpowered Kryptonian clone is moved from his heavily fortified cell, I tend to take interest in the detainment detail in case something went wrong.”

An unscheduled check-up.

_Damn._

Jason chuckles with a razor edge. “Just my luck.” He’s slow and methodical, moving an inch at a time, watching the contours of her body tense.

Grabbing the hilt of the sword with her other hand, her body twists, legs bent at the ready. “Don’t move.” She threatens, carving a warm line of blood on his neck, an inch above his old scar.

Jason smirks with a dangerous edge but keeps his arms up as a gesture of peace. An odd stand-off, loose and relaxed in the face of cold seriousness. The silence drowns them, but Jason merely watches on, counting the seconds away.

She was the first to act.

“Outlaw.”

Jason blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Some call you a ‘villain’, some call you a ‘hero’. Yet you call yourself an ‘Outlaw’. Why?” Her words were succinct, yet curious.

“It means I’m the necessary shock to the system.” Her eyes narrowed at such an answer.

“That’s not a proper answer.” Her voice hardens, toes curling, tense and ready to pounce.

His charming smile and half shrug seemed to infuriate her. “It’s all you’re gonna get.”

It was worrying how relaxed he was, reading her like an open book with an inquisitive look on his face. Tilting his head – leaving the side of his throat wide open – he asked. “Why are you trying to buy time?”

If Jason’s question surprised her, it didn’t show. “Tatsu Yamashiro, Japanese descent, wielder of the Soultaker, a legend within Task force X, even earning a seal of approval from both the Birds of Prey and Outsiders.”

Her face was kept tight, arms poised and firm, not falling for his tricks.

“You don’t get to where your standing without some serious skill to back it up.”

She stayed silent, fingers rearranging around the hilt. “It is…uncommon hearing my adversary hold me in such high esteem.” Her voice was silky smooth, unwilling to let go of the dialect of her heritage.

“I always liked women who could kick my ass.” Jason confidently stated.

“A feminist…I like that.”

Jason shrugged. “So, I’ll ask again, why are you buying time?”

“Batman would like you to be in one piece.”

This time Jason laughed.

His deep, baritone voice boomed, filling the air with mirth and gusto. She was used to it, big named villains who liked to laugh and look down on others. Laugh, insult, belittle, rant their issues away. Sometimes she feels like more of an unpaid therapist than an actual hero…

Until her blade gets drawn, at least.

“I’m not his son.” He manages, wiping a fake tear. “Ask him yourself. That bridge has been burned, pissed on and ignored far too much for any type of relationship to be rebuilt. Hell, if I had to guess, he probably doesn’t even acknowledge me as ‘Jason’ anymore. Just that guy in a red helmet.”

She pushed through the crass remarks. “Yes. I’ve heard. The Red Hood.”

“I go by a different name now.”

Katana cocks her head inquisitively. “Which is?”

Jason merely smirks in reply.

Silence swamped the lab, the end of her katana coated with a faint red. “Batman told me that you were arrogant. I didn’t think you were stupid enough to actually try and break in.”

A cheeky grin covers his face. “ _Do or do not, there is no try.”_ She did not smile _._ “And I’m in, right? So, I did _do_ it.”

“And what a mistake that was.”

Jason shook his head amused, a dangerous glint in his eyes had her tightening the hold on her sword. “No, the real mistake was you letting me turn around.”

It was as if time slowed down.

He moved, _no_ , rather he _glided_ towards her, as if the laws of physics didn’t apply to him, and she felt her breath catch watching him enter her zone without blinking.

Face to face, his eyes held a bleak look of death.

She swung down, but it was already too late. Inside her zone, bodies practically glued together, her sword didn’t have enough distance to do any damage.

He kept close, choosing to wrestle for supremacy.

The bane of sword users.

Arms moved like wisps in the night, gripping her leg and throwing her to the ground. She grunted at the shock, face twisting into a snarl of defiance, kicking out, landing a solid blow.

He coughed up his lungs, but barrelled on, fist clenched hard, fighting with the anger of a Gothamite, but the brutal efficacy of an assassin. Cabinets and boards _shattered_ from his touch, Katana’s brows gathering a puddle of sweat.

Each time she gained distance, striking with her sword, he always closed the gap, domineering pressure, unrelenting will, sending a chill up her spine.

He was fearless.

Blow after blow, they fought with ferocity, but she could never shake the feeling of something amiss brewing away.

She charged again. He dodged, she continued. Hack, slash, stab, it was an unrelenting battle that only had her grow more and more frustrated. She created distractions, used the surroundings to her advantage, throwing beaker bottles and test tubes, switching to more under-handed techniques to trip him –

But nothing.

He took everything she threw at him and _danced_ around it, like he knew what she was going to do before she did.

Each time, she received a blow for her troubles.

“Make no mistake, Katana. There are monsters out there that you have even never heard of.” She stayed ready, sword trained into his heart, and eyes watching his every move, but his words left a horrid taste in her throat.

Batman or not, she felt a pool of nerves build up inside her.

She lunged.

Impossibly quick, devastatingly deadly, her sword reached his chest, driving into his heart, but instead of flesh, she felt air. Her body flying through, his body half-turned with grace, letting her sword tear a line through his armour, a trail of blood in its wake.

_Bang._

The throw rocked her world.

Weightless at his touch. A fist came into view and her heart jackhammered away. _Wham-wham-wham-wham_ , she desperately rolled out of the way, powerful, unflinching blows chasing her.

He barely flinches, as his knuckles drive into the cold, unforgiving ground.

Spinning on her back, finding a solid footing, she rushed back into their game.

They had been going for so long, it was almost mesmerising how in tune he was to her, like a dance partner who’s eyes never left hers. Ocean blue, it seemed, and just as deadly as the dark waters the sea holds.

There was an elegance to his brutality.

The perfect blend of sheer brute force and skill. Like a dancer’s grace dodging fatal sword strikes, but punches and kicks he took like a bear – left, right and centre without batting an eyelid. Katana’s strong, she’s Justice League material, but Jason’s been taking the toughest hits from Batman far longer than any other freak out there.

Second to the Joker.

There are few that even consider this tactic, and even fewer who can successfully pull it off. What would leave some men broken, Jason merely brushes off. A dangerous style, but it works. Domineering pressure and unrelenting will, he pushes on, practically towering over her.

She’s desperate, he knows it.

She wasn’t being toyed with; she was being _studied._

With each move she made; Katana could tell he was improving. The hints were subtle, but they were there. His movements had become refined, smoother, less robotic, her eyes widened as he swayed back from a strike and the blade passed hauntingly close to his throat, but not once did she see fear in his eyes.

An ironclad courage in the heat of battle, on an impossible mission, pushed for time, and yet he did not look one bit shaken.

Was this what the Batman feared?

_Crack._

The abrupt groan of the table snapped her out of her stupor.

_The Clone._

The split second of distraction was her downfall.

Jason rushed her.

Solar plexus, temple, neck. A blur of movement, a hurricane of pain. Each more powerful than the last. Like a marionette without strings, she dropped to the ground, heaving, desperate for air as her eyes grew weak.

Her sword, weak against her grasp.

A jolt rushed through her body, heart hammering away as Jason plucked her sword from her fingertips. From the ground, he looked imposing – larger than life – sword delicate in his hands. His eyes peered at the sharpened edge, fingers gliding across the steel.

His razor-sharp grin left her _cold._

 “What are you doing?” She blurts out.

The smile on his face was sinister. Eyes alight with deadly confidence, he turns to her. “What does it look like?” Jason turns to Bizarro, gently handling the weapon over, with a hushed whisper and a nod, Tatsu felt her bowels sink.

The heat was _immense._

A fiery storm blew from the clone’s mouth. It smelt like charred embers and boiling iron, Katana’s eyes widened watching the Soultaker gain an unnatural red, heating up.

But it was the screams that had her mouth run dry.

“Souls of all the people you killed. Hundreds, maybe even thousands living in this sword, forced to be tortured for all eternity in a maelstrom of confusion. I knew someone with similar abilities.” The cries get louder, horrible, deathly screams of souls, aching in pain.

“Your husband is one of them, right?”

Her heart stops.

_No…_

“Tatsu!” A scream of pain echoes to life. The colour drains from her face, listening to the pain in his voice. The love of her life _in pain._

“Give it back.” She orders, desperate. “Give _him_ back!” Tatsu lunges for the Soultaker, only to take a sharp kick to her stomach for her troubles. Katana was thrown back, painfully clutching her stomach, but her eyes didn’t falter. “What do you want?” She demanded.

“ _Tsk-tsk._ ” Jason wagged his finger. “In due time, _mi bella._ ”

It kept burning brighter, the dull orange almost bubbling away. The heat was otherworldly, permeating through. “What do you want?” Her voice strains, every muscle in her body wanted to run, but she couldn’t take her eyes off.

“I want you to remember, when this is all said and done, I wanted nothing to do with this.”

She would have laughed if she could, her throat was unbearably tight. “Give him back.”

Jason shook his head, as if he didn’t get the answer he wanted. Sighing softly, lips pressed thin, he stayed silent for a moment. “If you could bring your love back. If it meant fighting everything you’ve ever known…would you?”

She didn’t even have to think. “I would do anything.”

A wistful, pained smile graced his lips. “Me too.”

Patting Biz on the back, sword shining bright as steam rose up, Biz gently lowered it down, looking abashed. Slowly and apprehensively, Katana kneeled down, eyes blurry with tears, hands shaking. “If you want to blame anyone, blame Batman.”

A dart lodged firmly into her neck.

She fell asleep, the warmth of the blade to keep her company.

Jason stares, lying to himself that the steam was fogging his vision. Swallowing through the lump in his throat, Jason peers down, the fibres of his combat weave in tatters. There’ll be bruising, but nothing serious. Faintly touching the cuts on his chest, Jason stared at the blood in his hands, a scowl found its way onto his face. “Dammit.” He curses. “I’m not enough.”

Turning to B, Jason finally looks for the first time in a long time, forgetting how big his friend was. Tall, proud and strong. He had that goofy, child-like smile that Jason remembers and, in an instant, felt his lungs crush, massive log-like arms encasing him in a crushing hug.

Jason gave out a wet laugh. “I missed you too, big guy.”

“Me too.” The rumble in Biz’s chest was almost euphoric. His friend was alive and that was all that matters.

Escaping from the mass of limbs, Jason moves quick, picking up the sleeping samurai. “Help me get the others to the elevator shaft.”

Biz’s ears twitch, like a beaten dog, wound up and defensive at every sound. “Don’t have time, Redhim.”

“Then we’ll make time.” Moving quickly, Jason called over his shoulder. “Come on, B.”

 

~

 

_Fwip-fwip-fwip-fwip._

4 shots, all impeccably clean. Quick and efficient, his four-man guard dropped within moments of each other. There are few things that surprises a renowned hitman like Floyd Lawton but watching a two-man strike team stride through a heavily fortified black site prison cell like it was nothing garnered his attention.

Floyd watched inside his dome of bulletproof glass, a minor reward to move around in his cell for working for so long under Waller’s scrutiny. It was intriguing to say the least, as the smaller one, dressed in all-black combat weaving, similar to the guards, rushes to the controls.

He’s quick, Floyd notices. Skilled too. He knows what to do and how to achieve it.

A prison break-out.

It was hard to see his face. The anti-flash wraparound lenses covering his eyes. But he was big. Broad shoulders, trained thighs, but moved with utmost grace and skill that had Floyd impressed.

The Hood, Floyd gathers, judging from the way the clone would hover close to the smaller man, nervous and happy. Happier than any other time Floyd remembers.

The glass walls had barely fell down before the kid started talking. “Come on.” Jason urged, already moving back to the elevator bay. “Let’s –”

“No.”

 _“Wait…what?”_ Jason couldn’t even begin to wonder why Floyd would _willingly_ stay. Peering back, brows scrunched together. “Why? It’s the home stretch.” Floyd mumbled something underneath his breath. Jason strained his ears but the look on Biz’s face said it all. Jason stepped forward, watching the glass walls slid back into place. “What did you say?” His voice is stone cold, laced with venom and derision.

Tearing a page from his latest prison rewards; Through the Looking Glass, Floyd gently folds the corners together, watched predatorially by the heavy gaze of the Red Hood. Throwing a paper shuriken at the sequencer, the Plexiglas rose back up.

Floyd’s gaze, hindered by the sheen of his cell walls, hard and determined, peered away. “It’s better this way.”

“As a fucking weapon?” Jason asked shocked.

“I’m a bullet, kid.” Jason sees the hurt, the longing, but he also sees the delusions and Waller’s hold. “Without someone to point and pull the trigger, I’m useless.”

“You sad sack of shit.” Jason growled, his throat rumbles like a predator. His stomach coils and winds up, reminding him of himself, how the mission always came first. He wasted his life for a mission when he should have been living it.

And Floyd was a father. From the looks of it, with a daughter that cherished him.

“What about Zoe?” Floyd visibly recoils like he’s been slapped. “Don’t you want to see her?” It’s harsher than he wanted, but Jason was strapped for time, and I didn’t feel like playing therapist anytime soon.

“Don’t you fucking dare bring her into this.” Floyd growled.

Stepping forward, Jason sneered. “Why not? It’s your fucking job. Your baby girl, your everything. She is your mission.”

“She’s safe.” Floyd snaps. “She’s safe. From me. From my work. From Waller.”

“She wants her father.” Jason cuts in.

Bolting from his position, face hard pressed against the glass. “You think I don’t want that?” He yells. “You think I don’t want to hold my baby girl like no tomorrow? You don’t think I love her?” Floyd’s face twisted into pure rage.

But Jason wasn’t sure who the rage was for.

“You don’t know what it’s like to be a father.”

The tender line Jason was cradling snaps. It bubbled and snarled, boiling over. “I KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE A KID!” Jason screamed.

Floyd flinched like he had been slapped.

“I know what it feels like waiting, every damn day of my miserable life, waiting for a dad that never came back for me. I know what it’s like thinking I’m the reason he never got the life he wanted –

“No…”

“I know what it feels like, living in an empty house, thinking my father didn’t love me.”

“She knows…”

“Does she?!” Jason slammed against the glass. “How the fuck would she know?! Tell me! How the fuck would she know you love her, if you’re not there to remind her every day? She’ll live her life – without you – until there comes a day when the word _‘father’_ and your face don’t match anymore.”

“Shut up…”

“And you might think that would be the best thing you could have ever done for her, that without you in her life, she’ll be safe, living in some two-story suburban picket white fence of a home –”

“Shut up!”

“– but I know – _I fucking know_ – she’ll live the rest of her life blaming herself for it.”

“She deserves the best!” Floyd cried. “She deserves the best and I can’t provide that! Not with the blood on my hands.”

With the bulletproof glass separating the two, they both saw their reflections dimly shining back at them.

A broken son and a broken father.

“That’s for her to decide.”

Lawton stumbled back, falling onto the ground, feeling those words hammer into him.

“You want what’s best for your kid, even if she doesn’t always agree with it…I get it, I really do…” Jason shook his head, memories of old haunting him. “But it doesn’t mean you should shut yourself out of her life just because you say so. Did you even tell her that? Did you tell her why she’ll never see you again? That the only time’s she’ll see your face is on the 9 o’clock news next time one of Waller’s mission goes to hell and you’re declared ‘ _Enemies of the State’_?”

“I never had my dad to hold me when I cried, I never had him tell me how proud he was of me, how much he loved me. No, I had to find that out – on a fucking piece of _paper_ – an entire decade too late. He wanted me grow up knowing that he loved me…”

“But I didn’t…” His voice was barely a whisper. “I lost my chance with my dad…don’t let her grow up thinking the same. You’re just wasting your life and hers.”

Floyd didn’t utter a word.

On the ground, with his head in his hands, Floyd looked… _broken._ Jason could see the tiny drops of tears lingering on the ground.

“What’s more important? Finding some bullshit purpose in a _mission_? Or being the father your daughter knows you are?”

The world stopped still; the only sounds were the heavy gasps of a man doubting his role in the world.

Somehow all their problems, all their hardships and challenges disappeared, and all that was left was two people, who kept losing.

And for the first time in their lives, they wanted to win.

As Jason watched Floyd raise his head, looking into his eyes, he knew the decision the man had made.

They moved quick.

Bizarro falling just behind, awkwardly carrying 4 men. Like bags of potatoes, their limbs flung aimlessly without any control. Heading into the service elevator, Jason quickly went to work on his PDA.

“There.” Jason exclaimed. “I short-circuited the bombs. Unless a stray bullet hits it, you and the others will be fine until you find someone willing to dig it out of you.”

Shoving a list and a backpack – stuffed to the brim with explosives – Jason relays. “Take Biz with you. Go floor to floor, incapacitated – _do not kill_ – all non-prisoners. There’s a vault up on the recreational floor. A safeguard for when convicts get rowdy and the prison staff can’t deal with them. Have Biz move them there, but be careful, the vault operates on a separate network and power source, the moment you open those doors, you’ll light up this prison like a goddamn Christmas tree. Every damn cape out there will come running.”

They had one shot at this. Move fast, don’t fuck up.

“We’ll also need firepower. Free every prisoner you see, except for Level 12.”

“Why not?”

Jason stayed tense, mind racing. “Because I can’t control him.”

Floyd didn’t need further explanation. He doesn’t really know the kid, they had an impromptu mission a few years back, but seeing him now, Lawton could tell he had some serious skill. His words were clear;

_Level 12 was too dangerous._

Floyd, or rather _Deadshot_ , has dealt and worked for Waller countless times. All prisoners were held separately, nobody knew who was being kept prisoner alongside them.

The only times Lawton knew was during missions, but even then…

There were monsters he was sure he hasn’t met yet.

“If any of the others get rowdy or try to hurt the staff – _Put them Down._ ” A decisive order. With the PDA on his person, Jason would have no trouble checking to see if his orders were being followed. “I don’t care how much you hate them; those guards are simply doing their jobs. Knock ‘em out and have the others move them to the secure holding. Any lowlife that doesn’t follow that order, you execute, without question.”

Floyd nodded seriously. No hesitation, or doubt in his mind. Anyone that causes trouble, anyone that risks him seeing his daughter again would be put down where they stood.

“And the bombs?”

Jason handed him a stack of papers, blueprints from the looks of it. “Once personnel are clear, rig each floor to blow. With 10-inch steel, hardened carbon-composite reinforcement, the Vault will protect the staff until the Justice League arrive. After that, regroup with me down in the Pits. I’ll have our evac ready by then.”

“The Pits?” Floyd blurted out, aghast. “Your so-called ‘escape’ is to go lower?”

“Just do it.” Jason snapped. “We can’t go to ground. We’re nowhere near a sea, if we go by land, it’ll be open season for us. And don’t even bother with sky. The Justice League has us cornered on every angle, so we go down, where there is a hidden Zeta Tube. Instant multi-dimensional, space-time slip stream travel. Only Waller and Batman know about it.”

Floyd stared at Jason impressed. “You’re going to use Batman’s contingency plans against him.”

The grin on Jason was downright _feral_. “He won’t know what hit him.”

The boom gates for Level 1 – the Officer Recreational Floor – opened up. Turning to the clone, Floyd patted his back. “Come on, big guy.”

The Superman clone kept looking back and forth between the two humans. Indecisive and cautious. Probably scared to leave Jason alone. “It’s okay, B. Remember what I said and follow Floyd’s command. Meet me down there when you’re done, okay?”

He nodded slowly. “Ok, Redhim.” Turning to Deadshot. “Let’s go, DeadHim.”

“It’s Deadshot.” Floyd grumbles, but relents following the goof in. As the elevator boom gates closed, Jason smirked feeling the rush of euphoria hit him.

The Sanctum just took an express train straight to hell.

_00:05:00_

At 1017 feet in diameter, the Singapore National Stadium is the largest recorded venue in the world with a massive 55,000 seating capacity. A monolith of its time, multi-purpose in nature, it was designed to hold massive crowds of football and rugby enthusiast, cricket connoisseurs and music fanatics –

And even it could not compare to the lowest floor of Mortem Sanctum.

Unofficially called: _The Pits_.

It was the single largest underground super-cavern found on earth, spanning over a whopping 2150 feet of pure, natural marvel. The entire space was filled with flood lights with outpost towers scattered around, leaving nothing to be amissed.

On ground floor, targets, weights, terrain courses spread out across the floor, as far as the eye could see. A training ground to keep Waller’s slaves in tip-top shape.

Where normal prisons had a yard, the Sanctum had the Pits.

Hidden in a far corner, in the one spot that didn’t have a camera trained on its very position, was a Zeta Landing Bay hidden expertly behind a false wall.

_00:04:36_

Amid the sirens, surrounded by carnage, only one cell was left untouched. Sitting within his circular glass cell, sat a man whose past was bathed in blood.

Vandal Savage.

Immortal, with no emotional connection to anything. A convict Waller could not use. One she couldn’t kill either. It was for this very reason why Jason left him behind. Ruthless, and cunning, he’ll betray the entire group if meant his freedom.

The ageless warlord would not be missed underneath a mountain of rubble.

“Interesting, how very interesting.”

A grin befitting the devil manifested. He had watched the clone and assassin come in and escort all prison personnel away, leaving him behind.

“I was beginning to wonder when the little upstart was about to come. The mice are roaring, taking on the lions of the Justice league.” He idly commented. “Two sides of the same coin both fighting for dominance. Light versus dark, good versus evil, but the world isn’t as black and white as you make it out to be, Batman.”

Being an immortal, Savage has seen many wars – been a part of many as well – and from all his time alive on Earth, he had learnt one fundamental truth of warfare.

It does not matter who has the bigger stick, nor does it matter the reason behind such frivolous antics. The ones who win, the ones that get to live on and rewrite history are the ones that had resolve.

They won because they were willing to do what was necessary.

“Are you willing to do what is necessary, Wayne?” He asked into the empty air. “I look forward to see what your boy brings to the table.”

The mice are roaring.

_00:04:01_

Time-space slip stream has a beginning and an end. Like a tunnel, it only goes one way, unless Jason could get his hands on the Watchtower computers, rewriting the program was nigh-impossible.

He worked fast, fingers dancing over the keyboard, a flurry of data passing through. He couldn’t disconnect the tube, not without a sufficient power source, but like any tunnel, breaches can be opened, sucking any passengers prematurely.

Incredibly unstable, like a skyscraper without foundations, it would be usable for a very brief window. After that, the whole system collapses on itself.

Completely untraceable.

But it came with dangers.

Forcibly removing a passenger out of a high-speed, inter-time transit could rip a man in half. The plan would be obsolete if they couldn’t live through it.

The prep he had made had taken him months, researching fluctuating energy signatures and landing protocols. It had taken him a considerable amount of time and money.

Two things Jason had in spades.

_00:03:12_

Jason heard the footsteps closing in, heavyset stomps mixed with the pitter-patter of gentle legs. Turning around, Jason merely grinned. America’s most dangerous, too powerful by conventional means, too dangerous to be kept alive.

His new army.

Deadshot led with a hurried pace, guns trained on possible threats as an assortment of characters followed behind. Bane, all 350 pounds of muscle drudged behind, eyes widening in surprise staring at Jason. A cold churn passed through Jason’s stomach, seeing how the Priscan _leered_ at him.

Captain Boomering – a name Jason had made fun of many times – trailed shortly behind, taking in the sights with a new light. The Australian has a skip to his step, but hands gripping his boomerangs like a vice.

Croc was, least to say, apprehensive about all of this. His steps, despite his heavy nature, was cautious and uncommonly graceful. His tail coiled up and tense, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. Jason eyed him a little longer than the others, disliking how some of the other’s noticed.

Trailing behind, in their own little world, were the women.

Beautiful but deadly, apart from his mother, no other women alive could hold such a title. Each step Killer Frost took, left a trailed of perfectly moulded imprints, delicately but lethal. Livewire was watching him with utmost curiosity, a hungry look in her eyes.

But it was Harley that made the biggest entrance.

A piercing squeal, as she flung herself into him. Arms and legs wrapping around with such gleeful delight that always confused Jason. She liked doing this to him, play games, make him question her every move. It’s concerning and stressful, feeling himself to see if his weapons were stolen…

…but once again, she surprises him.

Not a single thing taken.

“Hiya, sugar.” Her child-like enthusiasm sent a chill down his spine. “Staying in trouble?”

Jason smirked as the others gathered around. “You know it.”

Their interaction was cut short, as Jason noticed two usurpers making their way through. Bane and Boomerang pushed forward, clearly trying to push past Jason to the Zeta Tube. Stepping forward, standing firm, Jason knew this was going to happen,

“And where do you think you’re going?”

“Stand aside, child. You shouldn’t play with things you don’t understand.” Bane roughly spoke.

His brows twitched. “Excuse me?”

Digger – all cock-sure and equally dismissive – remarks. “Oh, you’re excused.” Laughing a little. “The big boys will take it from here.” The rough and tough accent gave Jason a headache.

Jason watched on unimpressed.

All bark and no bite. He wonders if Harkness would keep talking shit like this if he didn’t have any teeth left.

The sharp edges of his smile was chilling, voice concerningly smooth and gentle. “Let’s make one thing clear, shall we?” He says, turning around, resuming his work. “I didn’t deactivate the chips because I thought you all deserved a second chance and I certainly didn’t do it out of good will. I simply don’t _need_ them to keep you in line.”

It was like a dam bursts, loud rolling waves of undignified laughter entrenched him. Jason kept working with a raised eyebrow. “The youngling seeks his father’s attention.” Bane lowly said.

Jason feels his patience strain.

They were wasting time. But these Neanderthals wanted to beat their chests and play games. And it was the same one; about the Robin that failed. The one that was cast away.

Every single one of them.

Like a goddamn painting of what it means to take a step out of line. The useless one, they would say behind his back.

 _“Well, let ‘em.”_ Jason figures. All the more fun when he cuts them down to size.

“My father is dead.” Voice impeccably crisp and clear, uncaring of eyes on his back. “He died the day I became a man.” Somewhere inside him, buried under scars and dried tears, Jason questions which father he’s talking about.

Willis…

 _God,_ he was shit. The drinking, the yelling, the fights. Jason barely remembers a day where it was just them…Ma, Pa and him. A family. But the man did the best he could. With only the cash in his pockets and the will of a father, he did what was necessary.

That had to account for something… _right?_

But Bane wasn’t finished.

It was his pride, his insufferable ego. “The freak that broke the Bat”, a title the Joker greatly envies. His hubris didn’t allow him to be ignored. To him, there was only one, and his name was Bane. “A failure father and a failure son. Oh, reality. Thou art an ironic _puta_.”

The strain snaps.

But it wasn’t Jason pulling the trigger…it was Floyd. Cold, unfeeling, whipped up the gun, sights aimed down the familiar bridge of Bane’s nose. The Pits echoed with the sounds of cockroaches and clicks of typing.

He had his orders.

“Don’t bother, Lawton.” Jason calmly spoke, his body loose and relaxed but the hues of his face said otherwise. A deep, bellied sigh escaped Jason’s lips, pushing away from the keyboard. “I need to set an example.”

Bane stood there, grinning in victory, eyes with malicious intent. Gazing Jason’s figure, like a lioness would a deer. A predator hunting its prey. An eerie _shring_ faintly hummed in the cavern, Jason’s K-bar glinting dangerously in the limelight.

The thick, humid air of the Pits froze over. Two sides eyeing each other like the samurais of old. Motionless, but ever watching, waiting, staring through each other’s soul.

On the sideline, Floyd’s fingers gently massage his sidearm. They were wasting time, feeling his nerves crawl up his skin, a million tiny spider’s prickling away.

Jason had given him an order, but Floyd wasn’t going to risk this farce. The Red Hood was good, maybe even _excellent_ , but all it takes is that lucky punch. That one brutal, mind numbing blow that could jeopardise everything.

Zoe was waiting and he will not let a pissing contest stand in his way.

He blinked.

Oh, he wished he didn’t.

_Slam!_

Bane laid on the ground, with Jason on his back. Hands with an iron grip roughly grabbing the contours of the Priscan’s skull. Like a child playing with his food, Jason slowly trailed the knife up Bane’s spine, wrapping around his throat and carefully hung mere millimetres from the giant’s eye.

Jason leaned down, voice made of stone and steel.

“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. There is no ‘you’, no ‘Bane’, no ‘Demon of Santa Prisca’. There is only me and my meat shields. Your job is to follow orders. If I tell you to walk into a portal, you walk into a portal. If I tell you to step into the line of fire, then you step into the _fucking_ line of fire. You have absolutely **_no_** say in _my_ operation, you have no authority in _my_ mission. You’re free because I allow you to be. Your steroid-junkie cock-muncher of an asshole has little value to me, so don’t you fucking think I won’t leave you behind and send this entire prison down onto your ass.”

Jason pushed the tip inwards, in the thin empty space between the eyeball and bone.

Like a horror movie scene, blood trickled down his cheek as Bane felt the terrifying sensation of cold metal delicately balancing the soft, gelatinous tissue on the razor’s edge.

“Do I make myself clear?”

Bane has fought the Red Hood many times before.

 _This_ was not the Red Hood.

With a quick pluck, the K-bar exited without troubles, but Jason wasn’t finished. Lifting one final time, he smashes Bane’s head with a little extra push, wanting to send a clear message.

A message Bane didn’t receive. He was a thinker. A deadly mix of brains and brawns. Pain was temporary. He wasn’t thinking about short-term goals, but long-term effects.

_“He is too much of a threat to be left unchecked.”_

With Jason’s back turned against him, he pushed from his position, his sheer muscle mass imposing and threatening, as he charged Jason down.

Bane, all six-eight of him, naturally goes high. Jason goes low.

A howl of pain fills cavern walls.

The blood sprays in a horrid dark fountain of red.

Both of his Achilles tendons have been severed without hesitation and Bane falls onto the ground unable to move his legs. He shrieks and cries, feeling his feet go numb in a cascade of warm, lucid blood against eerily cold skin.

Jason watches coldly, the knife lazily dances in the palm of his hand daring any of the others to step forward and meet his wrath.

“Frost.” The woman in question jumps. “Ice his legs.”

A simple command, one that demanded respect.

She did as she was told, turning Bane’s legs into large lumps of ice, the blood mixing horrendously showing a disgusting blotch of almost black red.

Emotionless of his own brutality, Jason merely walks back to the monitor, noticing how Harkness willingly stepped back – _outside_ his range.

Good.

“Frost, Livewire, Boomering, Deadshot, Harley. In that order.” He listed quickly. “Croc, you’re going in last with me and Biz.” Jason moved swiftly, intent and purpose in his stride as he hurried between the landing pad and the access panel.

“I’ve set up safehouses at each of your locations, with instructions and enough provisions to last a nuclear winter. Stay low, stay hidden, make one wrong move and you’ll be shipped off to another black site prison, and I won’t be there to rescue you. Got it?”

“Where are we going?” Jason groaned. They didn’t have time.

Turning around to the source, Jason’s eyes narrowed on Harkness. “Less people that knows where each of you are, the better.”

“For us or for you, because I as hell ain’t –”

Without remorse, Jason whipped the gun from his waistband and levelled it against the Australian’s skull.

The Pits turned **_quiet_**.

Sirens in the distance was drowned in the thick tension.

Every muscle in his body visibly straining, he spoke with a low and chilling voice. “I don’t care if you don’t trust me, I don’t care if you don’t follow me, and I certainly do not have the patience to hold your hand and treat you like the overgrown man-child you are. Either you die here, or you die _out there_. Your choice.”

No-one dared to interrupt him, or rather no-one cared if Boomerang was left behind with a hole in his head. Even Harley was giggling up a storm on the side, watching with murderous glee.

“Goddamn, yanks.” Digger cursed. “Fine.”

Jason lowered the gun but kept his eyes trained dead on the Australian.

“What about him?” Floyd jerks a nod at Bane.

“What _about_ him?” Floyd stared into Jason’s hard gaze, impenetrable and unyielding. Bane chose to be a loose end, and the mission did not allow for wild cards doing what they wanted.

Apparently, Bane had some choice words to say. “Batman wouldn’t let me die.”

_Blam!_

Bane howled in pain, the bullet tore through his abdomen, missing his internal organs. Jason sneered, the gun smoking in his hands.

With a bullet in his stomach and the cold dread of knowing he had no-one to blame but himself, Jason left Bane where he laid. Unfathomable practicality in the face of reality. That was who Jason was.

The Zeta Tube lit up, a portal to escape had all the Sanctum inmates grinning like feral beasts. The cage that held them was no more, the path to freedom was in sight.

“Go.”

_00:00:31_

They moved quick, clinical. When one inmate passed through, Jason changed the drop point. All untraceable, all in different corners of the globe. Each site had been handpicked and custom fitted to specifications.

Frost, Livewire, Boomerang, Floyd and Harley rushed through with no troubles. They understood their purpose, and Jason had no reason to betray them. He could have killed them, but he didn’t.

Jason was right, die here or die out there.

They all chose wisely.

When it was finally the trio’s turn, Bizarro happily walked through, wanting to get out and breathe fresh, _free_ air. Isolated and tested, he deserved it. Jason only wished for that smile to never disappear. Waylon took one look at Jason, eyes searching for _something_ but held his mouth shut following Biz the portal.

Rechecking the detonators, Jason side-eyed the bleeding giant on the ground. His grin was feral, primal and purposeful. His fingers halted at the ungodly _screech_ pierce through the deep, fiery roars of carnage.

_00:00:00_

Turning around Jason spotted the remains of the elevator shaft collapse, two figures burst through the gargantuan doors.

Eyes wide staring at him in disbelief, were two heroes he had made his mission to take down.

Batman and Superman.

Just not today.

_Bip._

His finger jammed the detonator, the world going to hell all around them…

…the Sanctum shook.

A chain reaction of cataclysmic hellfire, the Pits started to cave in, unable to support the gargantuan prison above.

The three of them stood there in tense silence, eyes bulbous in disbelief were met with a chilling grin. Bane laid there, anger in his eyes and fear in his heart. Explosions rocked the prison’s foundations; sirens drowned the halls in a sea of wailing and in that carnage was a man and his best friend seeing a ghost of their past coming back to haunt them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, the chapter is extra long just for you. I'm not too sure when the next chapter will come out. Writing Bruce's perspective is difficult, but I hope to do his character justice.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, tell me what you think.


	13. Weaponized

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was rootless. Ever-changing, never constant.
> 
> Like smoke, they could never grab him.

_“What happened?” Her voiced boomed inside the small medical room. The heartbeat machine flatlining in the corner._

_“Ma’am, his heart stopped.” The leading physician runs amok, a defibrillator in his hands, eyes crazed and fearful. “He’s bleeding quicker than we can inject into him.”_

_She moved quick and purposeful, fingers checking his pulse despite the obvious. His blood coating her hands. She quenched any thought that she had lost him, not now, not after everything._

_His story has not finished yet._

_Whipping her head up, she looked fierce. “What are you lot doing?” Green fury like acid stared down upon them. “I am not paying you your weight in gold to stand around and do **nothing**. Bring him back!”_

_This was no request._

_They were not fools. When they had accepted the money, they knew about the risks it entailed. The Arabian Princess was dangerous. Ice cool eyes and a colder tongue promised a world of riches. She brought in the body – a corpse was a better description – the cot stained with foul dark red, and they wondered what fresh hell happened._

_Missing teeth, cracked skull, damaged eye-socket, ribs turned into confetti, a femur that looked like it went through a round with a wrecking ball and a compound fracture of the unknown man’s right arm that had a ghastly green slowly pooling at the wound._

_If they weren’t quick, they would have no choice but to amputate it._

_It was a miracle that he was still breathing. Slow, weak, uneven, but still breathing._

_An impossible task but the reward was too tempting._

_“His body is too damaged. Nothing short of a miracle can bring him back.” One of the assistants, a fresh-faced college grad, piled high with debt but with the skills to match, nervously talked back._

_He crumbled under Talia’s gaze._

_“Then make a miracle. I don’t give a shit if you have to walk to the depths of Tartarus. Bring him back!”_

_If Jason dies, so does Bruce._

 

~

 

Gruff, stuttering snores filled the empty silence, Ace was the loudest thing inside the cave. Busy at work, with Ace as his only companion, Bruce was running the numbers.

It was midday, but even after a gruelling night of patrol, he couldn’t sleep. An itch that couldn’t be scratched. A niggling feeling in the back of his head, a silent question that he hadn’t been able to answer for the past two years.

_“Where is he?”_

Hours had passed by, not noticing the grimy stench of sweat as he hadn’t even taken the suit off, where breakfast was a distant memory and lunch was soon becoming.

A sharp yap took him back into reality, peering down to his side as Ace yawned and swayed his head, wearily pawing the back of his ear.

Bruce chuckles fondly. Dogs were such odd companions. Fierce and loyal, Ace bared vicious teeth and powerful hind legs, with a deep-bellied growl that had even scared Bruce on some occasions.

Even Titus has a few wins tucked under his collar.

Curled into a ball, Ace’s chest rose and fell evenly, a snort escaped underneath the thick pile of limbs and fur. Dogs sleep in peculiar positions, not overall picky about where they slept. A quiet corner, unbothered by wind or ran, Ace’s thick pelt keeping him warm.

Bruce views the scene for a moment, with only the chirps of bats overhead to fill the silence. Reaching down, his fingers lazily scratch behind Ace’s ear. The dog in question stirs with a content rumble.

Sometimes Bruce wonders, who is guarding who.

He smiles softly, giving Ace a gentle pat on his head. The German Shepperd wiggles closer, a visible shudder travels down his spine all the way to the tip of his tail. Bruce watched with content, as Ace merely repositioned himself, head wearily plopped onto his front legs and tail swishing lazily back and forth.

Away from all the craziness that was Gotham, this soft, domestic silence was something Bruce fondly enjoyed.

With a blink, he notices the weight of his own eyelids, eyes tender from staring at the screen for so long. He ponders if he should call it in for the night. Nothing a quick shower and the finest silk thread sheets couldn’t fix.

But the purr of an engine interrupts his thoughts.

Cruising comfortably down the pathway, Dick’s bike slowed to a gentle halt at the base of the caves. The vehicle docking systems already at work as Dick lumbered his way onto the main area.

Ace peers upwards with prickly ears, but upon recognition, he merely yawns. The call of sleep was much more inviting than Dick’s ruffles.

“Did you get it?”

Dick sighed, pinching his nose in a way Bruce was all used to. “Oh, hi Dick. How are you? I missed you so much. Thank you so much for looking after your brother, it must have been tiring. Please, have a seat.”

Lips thin, jaws tight, a flash of irritation passed through his face. Dick held firm, it had been a long week, and Bruce’s sleep-deprived glare had long lost its effect on him.

Bruce sighed, rubbing his eyes awake. “Yes, I get your point…” There was a pregnant pause and Dick smiled knowing that look all too well. Bruce was trying. “How are you, Dick?”

“Tired.” He smiles weakly, plopping himself onto a spare chair.

Dick’s body sank into the plush cushions, hoping the kinks in his muscles would magically disappear. Bruce takes note of the exhaustion, eyes unfocused, spine uncomfortably curled against the support. A stifled yawn wanders and Bruce felt grateful that Dick had went out of his way and looked after Tim.

Bruce and Tim…

…it would take time.

He wishes to sit the boy down one day, on even ground, no capes, no masks, just two people who needed to talk. Hood was and will always be a touchy subject – on both sides of the playing field – but Bruce was willing to push through it, to sit back and hash it all out, not from father to son but from man to man.

Tim has grown up. The selfishness of a father, Bruce surmises, wanting to keep hold of the youthfulness, but times had changed, and he could no longer see Tim as a Robin but a man.

A man who makes his own decisions and lives by his own code.

Bruce just hopes when the time came, it would not be too late.

“Where’s Damian?” Dick asks out of the blue, snapping Bruce out of his stupor.

“Damian is with Jon tonight.” He answers. “Results had come back from their Ancient History class and Damian has been quite vocal on Jon’s C.”

“Was it the _‘I shall not be associated with such stupidity; I must rectify it’_ or the _‘Heathens! With this report, Jon should be teaching this class’_?”

Bruce merely dead-eyed the young man.

With a huff, Bruce grumbles. “Without the Shakespearean tone…the second one.”

Dick’s smile widened. “He still can’t admit it outright that he just wants to hang out with his best friend.”

Bruce grunted, clearly happy as well. “Jon is good for him.”

“That’s what best friends a for.” Dick chimes. Switching his attention to the screen, Dick ponders. “What are you looking at?”

Bruce scrunches his brow, that niggling irritation coming back in waves. “Same thing I’ve been doing for the past two years.”

It doesn’t take a genius to know what he meant. Dick was there, at the spiral that was Bruce diving down into his casework looking for Jas—Hood. His body had disappeared from Gotham, barely any trace that he was even in Gotham, let alone escape it.

Bruce had called _everyone._ The Supes combed the sky, Aquas had combed the sea and everyone in between hit the streets, door-by-door, building-by-building, and Dick was grateful that they came…

He wasn’t sure the Batfamily could have handled the riots by themselves.

The Justice League, once loved, they were now hated.

And even pushing through the verbal abuse, through death-threats and stony silence, no traces of the Red Hood was found. It was like he didn’t exist.

There was no doubt, he had outside help and Talia al Ghul was at the top of that list.

Dick has never liked Talia, not before Damian and definitely not afterwards. She was manipulative, shrewd, cold-blooded. Everything she did was to get back at Bruce. If that meant using Hood against them; healing him, arming him, turning his pain into fuel for revenge…

Her fangs would reach deep.

“–– get him soon.”

Dick didn’t realise he had zoned out.

“Mrs. Porter has been very vocal about the development project.”

Dick scrunched his eyebrows. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Bruce nodded morosely. “The Red Hood gang has become a…. _speedbump_ in our plans. Most of our inspectors and draftsmen can’t even enter the district without the fear of getting hurt. Gabrielle has voiced her concerns that we can’t proceed with the project if such a gang keeps operating in Gotham.”

“Okay…”

“She suggested that we should incorporate a harsher standpoint. With my backing, they are hoping to get new laws in place for the police to apprehend anyone wearing a red hood on sight.”

Dick’s eyes widened. “But that would be like the Robin war all over again.”

Bruce stayed grim. “Even Dr. Jamieson has agreed with the new idea and I’m getting calls almost every hour from other politically influential member saying they side with the movement.”

“But that’s police brutality!” Dick exclaimed. “Duke and his friends barely survived if it wasn’t for us.”

“I know. Which is why we must find the Red Hood first.” Bruce says firmly. “They hold him on this pedestal and move around the Bowery under his name. If we can apprehend him and dethrone him publicly, they might lose their motivation.”

“How much time do we have?”

“Not much.” A foreboding answer.

“It’s killing you isn’t it?” Dick teases, waving the hard drive in front of Bruce’s nose.

Bruce pinches his nose. “Hand it over, Dick.”

Dick harrumphed, not without a quick “buzzkill”.

The screen blasted to life with only one window to view. Tim’s file. The folder tempted them, taunting them. Dick went silent, whatever cheer he had disappeared, and Bruce looked at him solemnly. “It needed to be done.”

The young man’s eyes wavered. He had known what he was doing, Bruce even tried to dissuade him, willing to take the blame if it went south. Bruce’s relationship was already on the rocks, but Dick’s wasn’t…

But he was adamant.

 _“I’m the big brother.”_ He would always respond.

But sitting here, now, the file prominently on display, the deed done, everything felt _final_. Looking up, Dick finally said. “We’ll catch him.”

The screen lit up.

Jason Peter Todd.

The giant display taunts them. They stare with utter contempt.

Tim’s investigation wasn’t all that much different from Bruce’s. His last known locations were the same; Monte Carlo, Shenzhen, Iraq, Yemen, and most recently; Nepal. The data trail showed he followed a pattern, only popping up for 12-hours maximum before disappearing altogether.

It was too erratic.

Bruce had investigated the locations, there was no links between each site, unable to understand the motive either. He was rootless. Ever-changing, never constant.

He looked just as comfortable walking down the Business District of Monte Carlo in a bespoke suit as he would eating noodle soup on a plastic chair in Shenzhen.

On a few occasions, particularly in Nepal, a hero would find him, whether by accident or they found him just as he poked his head out of his hole within his 12-hour window. The reports stayed true. He spotted a cape, fought back if need be, but escaped by blending in with his surroundings, disappearing in plain sight.

Like smoke, they could never grab him.

Rapport with the locals stayed the same, as well.

Some say he keeps to himself. Others say he’s a smooth talker. A hard worker, willing to pitch in a helping hand, with a friendly smile on rainy days type of character or a quiet homebody, shy with others, but at least paid rent on time.

He was almost sociopathic in a sense, able to pick and choose favourable personalities at the drop of the hat, always to ensure he benefited from the situation. His closest friends were strangers that held no emotional attachment.

This adaptability rose questions.

He was organised, precise in his movements, confident to flit in and out of the country undetected with a bullseye on his back. What’s worse, was that he knew his limits. He never overstepped his bounds, never bit off more than he could chew.

That meant he was patient and a patient criminal was a dangerous criminal.

Bruce didn’t like this and judging by the look on Dick’s face, neither did he.

They conversed, pointing at anomalies, breaking apart Hood’s movement, all the way down to the motive. And that’s what struck them. They didn’t understand the motive. _Was he running? Finding refuge? Was he planning an attack? Who would he attack first?_

The essential building block for any investigation and they had nothing.

They moved down the report, hoping to fill in the blanks. Tim was detailed, down to the nitty-gritty. Seconds were counted, observations between sightings were recorded, trying to connect the dots between high-profile activity with Hood’s location.

But all of it was superficial, at best.

Although one theory hit Bruce like a dump truck.

Talia Al Ghul, a name that would always burn Bruce to the very bone, came up. For some reason, her whereabouts were simpler. Make no mistake, she didn’t want to be found either, but for the most part, her activities weren’t random…

The Middle East was her hunting ground.

She was in a unique position, able to syphon weapons to local militants of Iraq on behalf of the United States Government. They always denied such operations.

But the statistics never lied.

Tim had circled ‘Iraq’. Bruce had to admit, the theory had merit.

Hood travelled to almost every corner of the planet, his intervals at each location are unknown, but only once did he ever visit the Middle East.

But Talia was in the South American jungle at the time, knee deep in guerrilla warfare.

Or maybe it wasn’t the only time he’s ever been in Iraq.

Maybe it was because his transport was never spotted, maybe they met at an undisclosed location. Talia would sometimes travel, Tim noted, but only to Nanda Parbat on orders of her father or on a covert op overseas.

The two never crossed paths.

It was like she was the bait. Like a giant neon sign saying, _“look at me.”_ It was too obvious, which caused Tim to raise some doubt. Bruce filed that piece of information. It was worth checking up. Her involvement – or rather lack of – was too clean. He’ll deal with her later.

As Bruce kept scrolling down, his mood considerably lifted, there came a loud dying whine from somewhere, until all of the sudden…

Every single light within the cave went _out_!

The computer monitor crashed to black.

It was so sudden, so abrupt that Bruce didn’t have time to act. Dick looked at him in confusion, before the emergency back-up generators flickered to life.

But the monitor stayed the same.

His server had utterly and irrevocably _crashed._

Bruce and Dick stared at the black screen, mouth agape, dread sinking in. It wasn’t hard to connect the dots.

Tim.

A Trojan Virus must have been embedded into the code, instructed to corrupt any computer that wasn’t Tim’s. The Batcomputer’s 5-point firewall and digitally encrypted server was formidable and Tim’s virus must have taken time to dig through.

Bruce had no doubt in his mind a GPS ping was sent out, alerting Tim where the file was accessed from, and without remorse, the cold, biting air of the cave became unbearable.

Tim had hit the kill switch.

Bruce had procedures in place in case the Batcomputer or any other systems he had implemented throughout the city would ever be destroyed. He would have his hardware up and running within a day, a mere inconvenience and Tim knew it.

He struck back, only enough to annoy.

This was barely a show of power, if he wanted to Tim would have brought down the entire system. A day wasn’t much for the average Joe, but for a soldier, it could mean the difference between life and death.

Tim wanted him to know, if Bruce keeps pushing, he will follow through.

A powerful show of force.

“Shit-shit-shit-shit.” Dick muttered. He couldn’t hide this from Tim, couldn’t sweep it under the rug, even if he wanted to.

Tim now knew who had betrayed him and he was not going to be merciful. There will be anger, heartbreak, cold stony silence that would crush Dick underneath his gaze. Horror would come later.

“Go get some rest, Dick.” Bruce ordered tiredly. His head swamped with thoughts of Tim. It took a bit more urging to get Dick up on his feet. They wobbled, fear, regret and exhaustion battering him.

Bruce watched him go. Sunken shoulders as he numbly walked up the stairway. Bruce sighed, knowing Dick would not be sleeping anytime soon.

Neither would he, for that matter.

It was all falling apart. He sees the family he’s built rest in the palm of his hands crumbling to dust and he doesn’t know what to do.

But life does not stop for anyone, not even Batman—

An alert sounded.

His gauntlet flashing with an alarming red. Bruce's heart stumbled, an asset of his had been breached. Running to the Batplane, he pulls the coordinates, and he feels his face become ashen grey.

_Blacksite 0474._

“Attention, all League members.” Bruce barked into his communicator, hearing the pings of his allies connecting to the call. “Red Hood has resurfaced, Black Site 0474, _I repeat_ , Red Hood has been spotted, Black Site 0474. On route now, wait for further instructions.”

He didn’t even bother hearing their acknowledgement, already rocketing out of the cave. Batman was not a midday vigilante, but this was the Hood.

He gunned it—

Speed. Supercharged, blinding, invincible speed.

Gotham zoomed past in a blur of horizontal streaks and in mere seconds he had left the city. He shot into the atmosphere, the sun, sky and clouds morphed into one stroke of yellow, blue and white.

**_Boom! Boom!_ **

He had broken the sound barrier, _twice._ Thrusters on overdrive, the cabin rattled with intensity, reaching almost Mach 3. The city became a mere speck in the distance. On the cabin monitor, he pulled up the Zeta Tube’s dashboard camera and swore…

Hood was already making headway.

Even at this speed, he crunched the numbers quickly and…

He wasn’t going to make it in time.

Clark’s voice came into his earpiece. _“Need a ride?”_ He didn’t wait for an answer as Bruce felt the cabin _lurch_ forward even at the insane speed.

Superman was pushing the Batplane.

“I said _‘wait for further instructions_.” Bruce countered, pushing thrusters to the max. The sleek, aerodynamic body of the jet careened through the sky with the assistance, pushing Mach 4.

Clark held it stable but didn’t respond.

Batman let himself hope. _“We might make it.”_ He thought. _“We might make it.”_

During the interval, Batman pulls up satellite imaging.

No way in hell is he going in their blind.

Geographic patterns showed gale force winds blasting through the Nevada desert. A once in a century storm. It was too coincidental. The chances of such an occurrence was infinitely small. This could have only been done if Hood had rigged the weather.

Weather Wizard, maybe. Bruce stores that titbit of information for a later date.

The roar of the drag _booms_ again, Clark pushing harder and harder.

Bruce felt like he was in a warp gate. Where anything and everything turned into long streaks of colour. _“Is this what Clark sees? Everyday?”_

It’s a terrifying thought.

The weather pattern seems to have died down, he notices. Hood, no doubt, not needing Mardon’s services any longer.

Bruce—Batman takes a moment to analyse the images in front of him.

The small one-way camera on the Zeta Tube’s dashboard reflected Hood.

Something in Bruce jolted.

Armed to the teeth, military grade combat weaving, a blend of polystyrene and cotton – breathable and tough – he must have blended in with every ex-special forces soldier on site. And the size of him, beefy and well proportioned, like he was meant for battle.

Everything about him screamed ‘ _DANGER_ ’. From his razor-sharp jawline, to the speed he typed. He moved with purpose, without restraint. Screen or not, Bruce felt the never-ending itch of a noose hang uncomfortably close to his throat.

This Hood had that aura about him.

Someone that was in control.

Anti-flash glasses wrapped around his eyes made Bruce blink. It had been years since he had last seen those eyes. The memory has been bathed in blood, but Bruce could still spot them in a crowd. Vivid blue, yet hauntingly green.

It plagues his dreams, those eyes. Unblinking, unfocused, bringing him back to a time when they were just blue, like his. Back to a time of a boy that believed in magic. He would be dazzled by the sparkling blue, like the seas of Morocco where he used to take Selina. Where everything, just for a moment, was right with the world.

But the green always comes back. The poison spreads as the boy grows and Bruce can’t recognise him anymore, until the waves of the ocean die out and all he can hear is laughter.

A clown in the corner laughing at him.

Bruce remembers the night, another nightmare on his endless list of nightmares. His hands slick with blood, the Hood’s blood. Somewhere in the background, over the roaring anger of the Outlaws, Tim was fighting Damian.

But he hadn’t cared.

Bruce Wayne had crawled so far into the darkness, only Batman remained.

The clown laughed himself to tears.

Diana had looked at him differently from that night on. Sometimes, when she thinks no one is looking, she looks at herself differently as well. But the world turns, and they had to turn with it.

 _“Approaching site.”_ Clark’s voice burst through the roar of the wind. Static cackles and pops. Bruce peered through the window, the covert Airforce Communication Relay Base coming into sight.

The hazard winds had died down, the grounds looked ominously calm. He jumped out of the jet before Clark had time to put it down. Racing to the thick, armour plated door, he inputted his code.

“Dammit.”

Hood had shut-down everything. He couldn’t hack into something that wasn’t turned on.

Not enough time. Screw finesse and stealth. “Blast the door!” He orders.

Superman, without preamble, reared back—

**_Ba-boom!_ **

Running in, Bruce didn’t have time to slow down and investigate the drops of blood splatter that had mixed with coarse sand. He runs, Clark pushes forward, eyes scanning the platform.

A radiating heat pulses, Clark’s eyes a vibrant, deep red, the lasers cutting through the hidden platform like melted cheese.

Criss-cross sections, and with a sharp breath, Clark barrelled through.

The elevator shaft exploded. Tiny pieces of debris were like falling bullets into the dark cavern bellow. 15 levels. Lead-lined walls. They would have to brute force their way through. Shooting out his grapple, they descended.

_00:03:59_

There was no-one on each level. A quick check of the secondary vault cameras showed a work force of almost 200; cleaners, scientist, guards… _Waller._

They were safe that was all that mattered.

For an infuriating moment, he wished he didn’t lead-line each floor. Their progress was too slow for his liking. His heart is hammering, he’s desperate and Clark knows it.

His friend stays silent, flares illuminating the empty elevator shaft.

The sirens batters his eardrums.

Batman checked the timer again, _00:01:02_ , they were running out of time. By the time they reached the fourth floor – Harley’s _empty_ floor – Batman decided enough was enough. “We’re out of time! We need to get to the cavern! Now!”

He jumped down the elevator shaft.

The darkness engulfed him. Clark keeping pace. The cold lower air bit his uncovered chin, _100 feet_ … _50_ … _20_ …

He yanked the memory gliders. His body jerked back, landing safely on solid ground, Clark already carving a hole through the last door.

The wind is knocked out of him, his thoughts careening to a halt.

The Red Hood.

600 yards.

A bloody knife in hand, Hood stood tall. _“This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.”_ Bane groaned on the ground, and Bruce can’t take his eyes of the lumps of dirty red ice.

Clark steps forward, face set grim and determined, but stopped, even Batman could see—

A detonator in Hood’s hands.

_00:00:00_

Pandemonium erupted.

The cavern walls were peppered with explosions. Even from so far away, he could feel the intense heat against his cheek.

A torrent of boulders rained from the ceiling.

“Took you long enough.” Hood gloated sardonically, a thousand-yard stare pierces those anti-flash glasses. The pompous accent snaps Batman back into reality.

He bolts, trying to close the distance.

Superman flies ahead, reaching Bane.

Bruce hammers away, legs burning, but his effort was all for naught as the Red Hood took two deliberate steps backwards…

…into the Zeta Tube.

“No!” Batman shouts, throwing a Batarang in vain. A sharp _ding_ echoes into the cavern, the blade stuck firmly onto the backwall, with the Hood nowhere in sight.

Bruce rushes towards the console, “Batman! Stop!” Superman yells, blitzing in front of him, just as the Zeta Tube platform exploded in a fireball.

_He’s not getting away. He’s not getting away._

“Batman!” Superman calls once again, physically dragging him away. “We have to go. The whole thing is going down!”

He was right, the cracks were growing, the prison caving in. Assess, analyse and react.

Something catches his eye.

A flash drive.

He dives for it, a boulder lands uncomfortably close.

Superman yanks his cape, dragging him. “Come on!”

They had to move, _fast._

“Grab Bane! We’ll blast out way up!” He barked.

Superman moved quick, one arm around Batman, the other around Bane.

Rocketing up the elevator shaft, billowing clouds of dust and smoke shot out at each entrance. Superman covered his eyes, even he couldn’t beat an eyeful of dust.

Flames bursts hauntingly passed Batman’s suit, each level pillars of horizontal infernos short out, the smell of burnt hairs on the tips of his nose.

Debris fell, Superman blasting his way through as Batman covered both Bane and himself underneath his cape. The impact webbing took the brunt of anything smaller than a boulder.

“Faster!”

“No-one likes a backseat driver!” Superman hurtles back.

A mushroom cloud of fire and brimstone followed them, the soles of his shoes felt unnaturally hot—

_Shoom!_

They shot out of the elevator shaft, but Superman didn’t stop, blasting a hole through the decoy hangar ceiling.

The sandy, yellow grounds of the desert was a sweet comfort. Bane plopped aimlessly against the arid ground, unconscious. He didn’t have a rebreather like Batman, forced to endure the vial smoke and fumes, coupled with the hot flare of his severed tendons and artic cold of Frost’s intervention, the abuse to his body was too great.

“Dammit.” Batman roared, the cape wrapping around him like a comfort.

Clark didn’t stand by and watch, already knowing about the existence of the Vault. The Vault was held on the Recreational Floor, relatively close to the surface. He moved quick, the site workers surviving on a limited air supply.

Boulder after boulder, mountains of rock and foundations were thrown with ease.

 _“—–tman. Come in.”_ Victor’s voice came over the comms, and Bruce couldn’t help but notice the anxiety in his voice.

“Cyborg. What’s wrong?”

A heavy, strained sigh echoed through the line. _“I just spent the last ten minutes on the phone with every agency this country has. It’s…it’s not good, Batman. Homeland, CIA, FBI, even Wisconsin State County.”_

“Speak, Victor.” Batman ordered.

_“The kid. Deadshot’s kid. Zoe Lawton. She’s missing.”_

Batman swore.

Red Hood on the loose, Black site in rubbles, high-profile criminals scattered in the wind, and now Zoey. Batman feels everything caving in, the weight becoming unbearable. Pressured, led on, trapped into a corner.

His mind raced, thinking, analysing, always analysing. _“What else?”_ He thought. What else was the Hood going to do? What more could he do? What trail of destruction will he leave in his wake until he gets what he wants?

Artemis.

The Amazon.

She was the key to all this. Hood came for Bizarro, all that was left was Artemis.

It didn’t take long for Clark to find the Vault. Lowering the gargantuan cube-shaped frame, roughly the size of a house, a solid _thwunk_ could be heard, followed by muffled screaming.

The Vault door hadn’t fully opened before Amanda Waller marched out, clothes dishevelled, elbows scrapped, right up to Batman, eyes ablaze.

“What the hell did you just unleash?” She spat.

What indeed.

“He just blew up a half a billion-dollar black-ops project like it was a Barbie Dreamhouse.” She fumed.

He towered over her, nostrils flared, breathing heavily. “I gave you a job, Waller. A job you _failed._ ”

Batman waited, watching how her fists tighten against her side.

“What about your job?” She counters. “World’s Greatest Detective and you couldn’t find him in your own backyard.”

This back and forth they have wasn’t anything new. She points fingers, push the blame. She wanted power without the accountability.

“Get your shit together, _Wayne_.” She hissed. Batman didn’t react, but Superman did. “Either you catch him, or I will. And I don’t care who stands in my way.”

“Is that a threat?” He has never taken well to threats.

Her smile was bloodthirsty. “Why don’t you find out yourself?”

He couldn’t.

She created this, the spies and secret societies, sending bad people into bad places the government denies ever happened. She was the Monarch of it all. The things she could do at a push of a button, the secrets she has held in her back pocket, it could and will come raining down on Bruce if he wasn’t careful.

But she also knows her place as well.

They were in a stalemate, a double bluff.

Seeing the inner turmoil inside of him, she smiles viciously and leaves with the final word.

Clark stands to the side, watching the interaction go down. The lives they live, the decisions that make, wrong or right, it always comes back to bite them. His ears twitch, a faint _ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump_ could be heard. But it was odd, as he zoned in. The sound was muffled, like it was buried…

“I hear a heartbeat.” Clark said rapidly, cutting through the awkwardness.

With a sudden burst, he was gone, clawing through the mountain of rubble. Bruce stood there as Superman clear a path, puffs of dust billowing out from air pockets.

He looked like a dog, flinging gargantuan rocks high in the air. The booms shook the ground Batman stood on.

Bruce let himself relax for a moment, getting his heartbeat under control. The silence was a welcomed retreat.

Seeing Hood, after all these years, brought back some memories.

Some good, mostly some bad.

Bruce didn’t like to admit it, but he looked good. Clearly, he was looking after himself, well fed, well groomed, his scruff five o’clock shadow barely covered his chiselled jawline, sharp and accentuated.

And the ice-like curl of his lips. Emotion and bloodlust rampant. He does that a lot; smile, grin, smirk, snarl with a razor’s edge. He’s controlled by emotion. He teases when he’s happy and whispers truths with bloodcurdling sincerity when he’s angry.

The air always seems to thicken around him. He will be heard, he cannot be bought, cannot be quietened. He has a voice and he will speak, no matter who he’s against.

Bruce’s cheek slips upwards, the corner of his mouth rising.

He hates himself for that.

He shouldn’t have these feelings, of remorse and regret. He shouldn’t feel for a criminal. _The family is complete. The family is complete._ He chants it like a mantra, but the dark side of him, the one that taunts him in his sleep whispers. _Tell that to Tim._

His muscles tensed feeling the cold embrace of the Nevada wind wrapped around him. He had lost track of time, quarter to seven, his visor displayed. The desert was dangerous; scorching heats during the day, and artic winds during the night. The last rays of sunlight peaked over the horizon.

The weight of his decisions sinks its fangs into him.

A _boom_ captures his attention, a trail of dust and smoke shot into the air. Bleeding profusely, rebar sticking out of his chest, with gorishly flattened limbs, skin stretched so far that it tore in some places, Vandal Savage sunk into Superman’s arms, his powdered bones unable to hold his weight.

Landing softly on the desert grounds, Savage weakly opened his eyes. They fluttered aimlessly, the sickening sounds of bone reforming. With his caved in skull, weak raspy voice and frail smile, he mocked. “What…a…monster.”

Like a steak to the heart.

For an immortal monster, the human machination of death, a dinosaur in modern times, for him to say that...

It was a damnation unlike any other.

Medics clambered around, their faces morph in vile disgust, Vandal’s blood coating their rubbered hands. Batman and Superman stayed to the side, watching it all unfold as the dust begin to settle, leaving a foul taste in their mouth.

Hood was gone without a trace. He could be anywhere in the world with an army of the deadliest sadists the world has ever known at his disposal, each with a vendetta against a cape. Weaponized with information the Red Hood has gathered on the community.

Friends, family, loved ones; Bruce and Clark felt the calm before the storm.

This was going to be a bloodbath.

Bruce tries to ease his mind, pulling the discarded flash drive from his pouch. There wasn’t anything special about it, a simple USB stick, the kind that sells for a few bucks at corner stores. Scuffed silver design, with a laughable 2GB memory.

The drive only had one file on it. An audio file.

Bruce scrunched his brows, the cowl blocking all expressions. As the dust settled, as the workers ushered away, Batman’s heart stutters.

 _“Lovely day, isn’t it?”_ Lively sounds. Healthy, too.

Batman stays stock-still, nostalgia crashing into him like a tidal wave. He blocks it off, guilt can come later. He listens intently, trying his best to ignore the message, searching the background. _“The sky is falling, the ground is rumbling, scumbags are dying.”_

He strains his ears, listening, searching, cataloguing. It irks him that he doesn’t hear anything. With a questioning look he faces Clark, but to no avail. Hood made sure they would only hear what he wanted to hear.

_“I know, I know – I’ve heard your speech. ‘We must set an example’, ‘this isn’t the way’, ‘we’ll be just as bad as them’. It’s a crock of shit and you know it, Bruce – but alas, I’m not here to debate with a brick-wall on how your mission is the answer to crime. I stopped giving a shit, really, your mission, your problem.”_

Batman can’t think of anything else to do. Each potential clue led to a dead-end. And he hated it.

Because it meant that Bruce Wayne had no choice but to listen.

_“My problem isn’t with the symbol. Believe it or not, I still have respect for it. For what it’s done and what it can do. No, Bruce, my problem is with you. Just you.”_

Bruce fumes in silence, forced to endure this humiliation. His mistakes with Hood, leaving him alone, _trusting_ him. This was all his fault.

_“But why would you listen to me? I walk in here, cocky as shit, pissing on all your rules, making demands. The Big Bad Hood, the boogieman of your precious little Robins. A supervillain, a rootin’ tootin’ maniac. The angel that fell.”_

A cackle burst through the recording, knowing unequivocally that Batman could do nothing about it.

A spit in a face.

But then the tone changed.

_“I know you, Bruce. I know that you sleep on the right side of the bed, one arm under your pillow, facing the window. I know you hum ‘For the Longest Time’ when you think no-one is looking. I. **Know**. You. Just like I know, you only own up to your mistakes as long as someone is there to forgive you. You will not find forgiveness here. Not from Waller, and certainly as shit, not from me. But then again, that’s why you brought the boy scout along.”_

Clark bristled.

A long, pending silence held Bruce’s breath.

He picked up a terse sigh. Disappointed and course, tempered and aged. The squeak of a chair follows.

_“Everything you have ever built; your reputation, your mission, your purpose, I will take that from you. There will be no rock you can hide under, no contingency I can’t overcome. Brick by brick, I will take everything from you, Bruce, just like you took everything from me. That, I promise.”_

_“Let the punishment fit the crime.”_

Silence. Bruce’s glare burns a hole in the ground.

Clark is speaking but Bruce doesn’t hear him. Replaying the tape with a burning sensation.

Hood didn’t record this inside 0474. Despite his showmanship, there was too little noise, barely any background tones. He did this in a controlled environment, where he had the final say. The acoustics were clear, his wording distinctly pronounced.

This was a message he wanted Batman to hear.

This whole thing was a message. He shouldn’t have been able to find Black Site 0474, let alone breach it. It didn’t exist, Batman made sure of it, employee salaries were routed through three international banks that the Watchtower monitors daily. Workers were screened and watched almost 24/7. Incoming and outgoing wireless information; calls, e-mails, data drops, were channelled through the Watchtower, Clocktower, and Batcave before transmitting.

Hood should not have known.

And yet, he did.

And the plays, the way he worked, carefully constructed steps that had to have taken time and patience. Two traits Hood was not known for. The way he reacted too, baffled Bruce. Like he knew Batman would come.

Bruce’s gut tells him Hood knew more than just that. He must have known the plane could never reach the Nevada Desert in time. He knew Bruce would have no choice but to accept Clark's assistance. He knew that when faced with impending death, Batman would prioritise saving lives – no matter who it was.

Bane was a goddamn pawn and he fell for it.

Hood was dangling the carrot in front of his very eyes whole time.

A chump, that’s who he was.

He falls back, isolating the recording, listening for hints. Hood was clear, concise, his words were punctuated with meaning and even Batman had to agree, Hood sounded convinced.

_Let the punishment fit the crime._

Batman growls at that.

There was no reason for him to feel guilty, to chase down a monster that took people off the streets, made them kneel and beg for their lives only to shoot them where they knelt. Hood’s damnation of Batman’s actions were baseless and deranged.

And yet, for a moment, he was.

Something old and broken inside of him yearns, figments of his past bursting forth. Jas—Hood was stubborn to a fault, driven by emotions. He only acts on revenge when he has been wronged.

The poison of doubt seeps in.

But then, he remembers the photos.

The 3D simulation of the men, woman and children shot twice in the heart and once in the head. Executed. He remembers that some weren’t even that lucky, left to burn inside the warehouse, choking on toxic fumes, surrounded by corpses of strangers and – for the unfortunate – friends.

Bullet casings that perfectly matched Hood’s.

What he did was right, what _Batman_ did was right. His only fault was not doing this sooner. People died because he didn’t act sooner. Hood was insane. A criminal. A murderer. The Joker once wore that mantle, and Batman knows what madness he turned into. The blood spilt to gain Batman’s attention, the bodies violated, their memories humiliated, all for a game.

It won’t be long until the Red Hood does the same. Some days Batman thinks he’s already turned.

But Hood was right on one thing…

This will end. Batman and the Red Hood. An open and shut case, no trial needed. Arkham will have a cell waiting, with every top of the line equipment money can buy and whatever Batman can make, and Hood will be strapped in a damn chair until the day comes that he becomes a changed man.

The end of the Red Hood.

 _“The world will be better off.”_ He thought. The devil on his shoulder pins the angel down, covering its mouth. _“The Waynes will be better off”._

Clark watched his best friend storm away, closing everything off until all that was left was the mission. Jason had always been a sore spot. Bruce will always blame himself, that’s who he is. It gives him a reason to push harder, work better, anything that could fix his mistakes.

Batman’s greatest failure.

Jason used to be a good kid. Bad background, new purpose. But Batman has given him too many chances for him to be good again.

Murder is murder, no matter how you look at it.

A touchy subject within the League and the Red Hood was at the epicentre of it all.

They acknowledged the necessity of his role, but they never accepted _him_. His ideals, his morals, his vision, they couldn’t accept any of it.

He was just that; a final resort.

The last possible solution in the ever-growing pile of filth that clogged their system. But the Hood himself, what he means as a person, how his actions affect the world, they couldn’t accept it.

Superman, Wonder Woman, even Batman to an extent, represented the law. They represent fairness and justice, equality of all races, genders, ages and religions. Transparency, legality and equity were what they embodied.

The Red Hood was everything a hero should never be.

He took the laws into his own hand, serving his own brand of justice to those he saw fit. Murderers, rapist, paedophiles – the worst of the worst, the moral excrement of society, people who didn’t deserve to see the light of day, taken brutally, without remorse disrespecting the very equality heroes stood for.

A fair and just trial.

They wouldn’t, or rather _couldn’t_ ever accept him.

Because the difference between _them_ and _him_ wasn’t his willingness to kill. Wonder Woman killed, Green Lantern killed, Captain Atom killed, Green Arrow killed. To society, to the broken and damaged souls of the world, Superman was an unobtainable icon – a legend and even in the eyes of some, a god.

The Hood…

…he was special.

Not a distant figure or shadow in the night, the Red Hood never claimed to be anything more than he was.

A man.

A man who has been what they had been through, who knew their pain and suffering, who crawls through the shards of glass alongside the poor and cares for the children as if they were his own.

Kid’s mimicked the roar of his motorcycle, the way he would rev the engines. Street workers moved with safety and certainty and beggars slept knowing no-one would kick them to the curb each night.

The favelas, crumbling slums, the sickly girls and malnourished kids all looked up to him, a protector, a knight in bloody armour, someone who rolled up his sleeve and dove into the pile of garbage and cleaned the streets, one piece of trash at a time.

He was one of them.

To them, he was their saviour, and the thought was… _unsettling._

Because if the day ever came that the heroes accepted the Hood’s ideals, that they acknowledged his actions as right…

Then it means they had to accept that they had _failed_ the very people they swore to serve.

 

~

 

“Where are we?” Waylon’s dark rumble pierced through the mouldy air.

It’s small. Cramped, even. His shoulders barely fit within the hallway, ducking underneath the doorway. Waylon peers into a room, and is instantly hit with a waft of cinnamon, an old scented candle burnt out in the corner.

A fully stocked fridge, ogling the draught beer stuffed to the back. Mugs and plates hung on the drying rack, all colourful and nothing like he imagined Jason to be.

He questions if this is even Jason’s.

On the kitchen bench, a small post-it note laid, immaculately preserved. Waylon could barely make out the gentle cursives on the parchment before Jason stuffed it into his jean pockets. Waylon huffed but stayed quiet, absorbing his surroundings.

The living room contained a black-leather couch, good quality too, scruff wrinkles and deflated cushions, he could see himself laying there for days on end, if his scales don’t puncture it first. Books piled high next to the armrests, where corner tables would normally be. Timber floorboards traversed to every corner, freshly lacquered with dark wood tones.

It’s nice. Simple.

But he wasn’t a fool.

The books, the worn appliances and furniture. An overwhelming warmth of homeliness gripped him, but he knew better. There were no magnets on the fridge, dust didn’t exist inside finnicky notches, and it was lacking something. Something all homes have.

Not a single framed photo to be seen.

“Where are we?” He asked again.

Jason stepped forward; Talia’s errand boys had done an impressive job, but he doesn’t truly take notice. The kid inside of him sniffles in the corner as old memories began to break through the veil. Eyes scanning the kitchen top his Ma used to cook on. Mac ‘n’ cheese for his birthday, he remembered.

The dining table he would hide under with Sparky whenever his parents got into another fight.

But it’s the spot underneath the window that has his heart stop.

A worn study table chipped and cracked, through years of misuse and changed hands. Once upon a time, a mattress laid there. Old, torn, springs poking the small of his back. The same one he found his Ma on.

Cold. Lifeless. A needle in her arm.

He kneels in front, hand gingerly reaching out. Jason honestly didn’t know what he expected. A ghost, an illusion, something that said that it all happened. All he gets is old tears, once dried out, coming back in waves.

A museum of his past.

“The last place Bats will ever look…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, once again, sorry for the late update. Writing Bruce was...taxing, to say the least. I wanted to show the good, the bad and the ugly and I hope I conveyed it well.
> 
> Like always, any feedback on my writing style and plot lines are greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading.


	14. Sponsor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Pain is subjective, Tayir. You can let it control you, or you can control it. Remember; pain is temporary, defeat is forever.”

Waking up in his childhood bedroom brought back memories he’s been trying to bury since he had donned the red, green and yellow. A life he had tried to move past but always found himself back where it all started.

A satisfying shudder ran up his body, the warmth of his room felt out of place. He remembers being cold every winter as he shared his covers with Ma, he remembers cracks in the window letting cool air in on a snowy day, he remembers the ratty red hood he would wear endlessly as it was the warmest thing he owned.

The drowsiness of heat, in here, freshly renovated, felt weird.

There was a bed. A bona fide, therapeutic, tempur pedic mattress with silk sheets bed. The walls didn’t have cracks, the bathrooms tiles didn’t have mould, instead of looking like a side-alley dump, it looked lived in, used, cared for.

But some things didn’t change. Waking up at the break of dawn, he blinks away the heaviness in his eyes. His heart slows down, another day, another nightmare, cold sweats run down his brow and he stares at the ceiling feeling _empty._ He lazily tilts his head to the side, looking at the bare space on the bed and feels nostalgic, reminiscing about how Artemis’ auburn hair felt on his fingertips.

Her gentle face, unbothered by the world.

There was a time when love, affection, belonging where a pipe dream. To look at a woman and be completely vulnerable, his heart in someone else’s hands. Like god put an angel down on earth just for him.

The thick, arid tension was there. The constant “will they, won’t they” game that the two played. Jason pushed, only as far as he and Artemis were comfortable with. He knew at the end of the day it would be her choice to decide.

And she chose him.

He lets his mind wander, back to a time when early mornings were simple affairs. Book in hand, dealing with his insomnia the best he can, Jason would read until the peeked through the gaps of his curtain. Orange tinted the bedroom, the shadows receding back to where they came from.

She kicks, Artemis, in her sleep.

She would toss and turn, stealing the covers, lashing out at demons that weren’t there. He wonders if he does the same, if she’s ever noticed it before. He would always bite his tongue, grasping a handful of the bed sheets, trying not to scream. She would wake up the next day and see his shin bruised to kingdom come, and when asked Jason would always smirk, smouldering eyes, quirky lips, and joke about Leprechauns and gold crusted family jewels.

Artemis, no matter how hard she tried, could never hide that faint smile.

Soft, enrapturing. Like he had something worth looking at.

He wonders if he was her angel.

Jason huffs, blowing the streak of hair dangling over his eyes. It flops right back, tickling the tip of his nose. He’ll have to get a haircut soon. Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, he pulls himself upwards, the Gotham winter kept at bay as he basks inside with the thermos cranked up.

Croc was probably loving it.

A slight clink captures his attention. Two silver rings hung aimlessly on a simple black band around his neck. He twiddles it in his hand, one of the few comforts he has left in this world.

He was going to ask.

“Fuck you, Bruce.”

A knot coiled in his chest. Bruce took that from him. He tried to take away his future from him. Jason’s stares with hollow eyes at the apartment grounds. He had believed in him, tried to trust him – Batman and everything the symbol meant.

He knows it stems from his past, the things he did, the blood on his hands, the morgues he’s filled. And he can’t deny it, he might have too. Hindsight was whimsical like that. But this was Batman, the symbol of absolutes and iron-clad convictions.

That held a heavy weight on his gut.

What Batman says, goes. Jason was willing to bet that whenever a rumour arose about the Red Hood and Batman, the blame would rest on his shoulders, not Bruce’s. An unstable criminal, a reckless Robin, a foulmouthed man. They didn’t need facts, they had experience.

_‘Guilty until proven innocent.’_

That left a bitter taste in Jason’s mouth.

Due process, a fair trial. Bruce would always say every life was important, that must be treated equally. Where was this equality when his friends were being imprisoned without due process? Where was their chance to stand in front of a judge and say their version of the story?

Where was their rights?

The law, their moral compass, that was just something Bruce could hide behind whenever it suited him. It keeps the populace believing in the capes, shows the world that they are above the very scum they fight.

But Jason was living proof of Bruce’s convictions. Batman was supposed to be above convenience, he was supposed to represent the value of absolute evidence, doing the right thing, no matter who it was.

Jason was many things; a hypocrite was not one of them.

What happened to the world that he could no longer believe in Batman? Justice, equality, fairness. Those are pretty words for pretty people. The symbol might not be broken, but the man behind the mask is. That is who he’s fighting. That is the man he had resigned himself to. He had made peace of this part of his life as Bruce’s punching bag.

With a heavy sigh, he lifts off the bed, wondering out into the main hallway. Croc was still hard asleep on the couch, and Jason merely grimaces at the torn upholstery. They weren’t staying for long, thankfully, so he had no qualms against leaving it out in some nondescript alley for a fortunate soul to find.

Venturing further down the hallway, he slips into the main bathroom for a shower.

Stripping down to his birthday suit, he avoids looking into the mirror as he enters the cubicle door.

The showerhead billows a steady stream of hot, lucid water. Steam rose in waves, fogging up the compact shower compartment, the see-through glass painted with a wall of hazy white. A gentle humming, a deep scrub, a wave of sensations travels up his skin. Like any other person, he likes to let his mind wander when he’s in a hot shower.

The escaped convicts of the Sanctum. They’re dangerous, vile, manipulative, shrewd characters. His prison break wasn’t his way of buying their services, let alone make them owe him a favour. He doesn’t expect any of them to follow him. Croc, Frost, Harley, even Floyd had their own lives to deal with and if anyone knew about second, third and fourth chances, it was Jason.

If they ever end up on the battlefield against each other, he has no qualms putting a bullet into their skulls, but for now, after everything, they needed a break, he needed a one too.

He hopes at least Zoe’s having the time of her life right now.

When the time came, when the ball starts rolling, he hopes they’ll come. If not, well, he wasn’t short on contacts. Talia’s little note – simple, delicate, something she took the time to write _perfectly_ – gave him everything he needed; _Accounts activated._ The money to fund his war. $100 million in Euros, $20 million in Japanese Yen, $5 million Hong Kong Dollar and $75 million in sweet American green. Scattered across the globes, in small local banks that often go unnoticed on the international scale.

He could buy a small country with it…

…or fund an army.

Talia could have only achieved it through her large subsidiary portfolio, some of which he owns – discretely, of course. Small increments, subject to local Treasury law. On Balance Sheets everything was above the line. Only Talia and Jason knew about the under the table workings.

Twisting the shower knob off, he got out, quickly drying and dressing himself in simple jeans and a loose-fitting cotton shirt.

He never laid his eyes on the bathroom mirror.

Jason wandered back through the hallway, unable to keep his heart at bay. The cool sensation of his parent’s bedroom door sent back memories and he just wanted to know, to reassure himself that what he had done was real, that he had beaten the Sanctum, he had beaten Batman at his own game.

He just wanted to know Biz was safe.

He peeks inside and his heart swoons. Biz was bundled under a small mountain of sheets, bear hugging Pup-Pup with no end. With a slight smile, he slowly closes the door. He figures Biz has earned the extra rest.

Moving to the kitchen, he stops in the middle of the hallway, slowly pulling open the hallway closet. The old hinges squeak, like they did almost a decade ago. He cringed at the sound, hoping it didn’t wake anyone up. Inside the closet were simple belongings. It was packed with everyday items, old tattered towels no-one dares to use and slightly scuffed linen sheets.

Kneeling to the floor, pulling a roller suitcase out of the way, he notes a small chip in a timber panel hidden in the corner. Slotting his index finger in, he lifts gently, feeling the walls scrape along his knuckles. A thick line of dust forms on the tip of his finger.

The floorboard opens up and inside the small hidden compartment was a black, Samsonite duffle bag. He hefts the strap onto his shoulder, feeling it tense with the sudden increase in weight as he made his way to the kitchen.

A gentle thud rung out as he dropped it down on the bench, the lacquered timber blends with the black carrier. One by one, he pulled the contents of the bag out, systematically lining the equipment out on the benchtop. An array of equipment ordered to his specifications.

He nodded approvingly.

Talia hadn’t sent League operatives to do the job. In a world of espionage and secrecy, cloaked assassins were a thing of the past. Batman knew how they worked; he could pick them out in a crowd of thousands.

Talia had hired external contractors, people who weren’t on Batman’s eternal shit-list.

A man and a woman. Covert operatives that preferred to blend into their surroundings as Mr and Mrs Bad Guy. They had agreed immediately.

They had done their job transporting equipment through Bat territory into Park Row. The apartment was well maintained, as per instructions. They made sure it would look clean, payed the bills, so upon Jason’s arrival, the electrical usage wouldn’t spike luring prying eyes.

Half a million euros each to housesit. Easy money.

He checks over the gear he had requested for the duration of his time in Gotham. Cash, weaponry, small detonation explosives and the necessary tactical equipment he would need. _Always be prepared_. He had purposely left his Red Ronin gear in a safe location, not wanting to reveal too many cards so early.

This war will be won with precision, anonymity and controlled violence.

No big plays, no games, no deviation from the plan. He had a job, a job he intends to do well.

Reaching for the travel pistol he ordered, a bittersweet air lingers. Smooth, compact, it held twelve 9mm composite hollow point rounds in a mag. He was proficient with any firearm, he needed to be, yet he felt incomplete without his custom-made Jericho 941s.

But for Gotham, flying under the radar, he needed something that didn’t point fingers back to him.

A SIG Sauer P229. The pistol of choice for British Special Forces, used for anti-terrorism and undercover work. He had specifically requested the SAS model; ‘SIG Anti-Snap’. Designed for a sleek carry melt, the corners were smooth alongside the slide and frame.

Comfortable for carry and quickdraws.

Jason turned the pistol in his hand, appreciating how well the serial number and engravings had been grinded off.

He stripped the gun, checked it and reassembled it. He didn’t need to think, 30 seconds, tops. It was second nature to him; clean, oil, maintain, it had become routine, drilled into him.

_‘Smooth is fast. Fast is smooth.’_

Talia would repeat it over and over until every time he picked up a gun he would never hesitate, never doubt. He liked doing it, the familiar weight underneath his hands, the satisfying _click_ of the action as it slides into place. He did this before every mission, not just to check if his guns functioned; but also, to psyche him up, get his game face on.

He did the same just before he would make a shot. He would line it up, take into account the wind as he peered through the crosshairs. The target’s head in sight. Every shot, he would imagine it, that puff of pink mist.

And then he would pull the trigger.

Along his list, he examines the small wad of C-2 putty explosives. Twisting in his hands, he feels the malleableness of the putty even through the vacuum-packed plastic bag.

Small radius, high impact.

Never know when you would need a phone bomb.

Jason went back to the other list of equipment. Top of the line stuff, some weren’t even on the market. Like the emergency medical gel. A quick hardening gel that solidifies over an open wound, disinfecting it and effectively stopping the blood flow. Tactical and efficient, it gives him enough leeway to retreat or in extreme cases, fight on.

In addition; a portable blood analyser, a few more mountain pitons, high-tensile paracord, a couple of burner phones and an array of hand-to-hand combat weapons.

Apart from the C-2, his equipment was relatively tame. It was more of a bug-out bag than an assault kit. If need be, he has a storage depot few clicks inland that could bring the pain.

He hopes he doesn’t need it.

An uneasy feeling sat uncomfortably in his gut.

He was going to do this. Wage war. It was an unpleasant thought. His life will never be the same after this – win or lose – he was at a crossroad and he couldn’t see the end, no matter how hard he planned.

Batman and him…it will never work. They were two different people, both equally stubborn, both equally steadfast. Bruce, for all his words of wisdom could never see beyond his own hypocrisy. Wanting Jason to be his own man then ostracises him for being different. But Jason had to admit, Bruce’s methods do work. The equilibrium of the world had reached a standstill. The measured response of the criminal element only brought more chaos, and the heroes had to step up; but it did work…

Things could be so much worse.

“If you keep frowning like that, you’ll get permanent lines.”

Jason’s heart jolted.

Instantly, he whipped the gun up, the safety flicks off. His world comes to a screeching halt, physically forcing himself not to pull the trigger. Breath heavy, chest surging as sweat pooled on his brow, Jason swore.

“Dammit, Croc. Don’t sneak up on a guy like that.” He said, pushing the gun far from his reach. A few audible gulps later, his breathing evens out.

Waylon stayed by the kitchen opening, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. He kept silent, yellow eyes outlining Jason’s figure in a way that made Jason shudder.

“Why are you up so early?” Jason deflected.

“I could ask the same the same question.” Waylon responds, unimpressed.

“Just checking over the equipment.” Jason shrugs, hiding the twitch in his neck. “Back in the belly of the beast, gotta be prepared.”

He could feel his heart hammering away, fighting his memories back. Croc watches him with an intensity that he doesn’t like. The slit of his pupils tracing his silhouette. It’s unnerving is what it is, and Jason fights the urge to bristle under Jones’ heavy gaze.

A tense moment passes, and Waylon submits, pushing himself off the wall to check the array of gear laid out before him. Turning his attention back to the bench, Jason picked up one of three wristwatches neatly placed inside a foam cushioned plastic box.

“Here.” He urges, pushing it into Croc’s hands. “Put it on.”

“What is it?” Waylon asked curiously as he wraps the metal trinket around his wrist. The size custom-made to fit.

“What? Never seen a watch before?” Jason jokes, with a cheeky smile. “EMP camouflage. Push this button on the side three times to initiate facial analyses, pick your new beauty look and _voila_ you’re a new man…or a woman, I don’t judge.”

Waylon nods appreciatively, the watch sitting comfortably on his wrist.

“We’ll be moving out in a couple days, but both you and Biz aren’t the most…” He shakes his head side to side, finding the right word, “ _subtle_ walking, talking prime specimens to go through Gotham City. I have business to take care of here and I can’t have either of you jeopardise it.”

Croc grunts in agreement, already playing with the features. Jason smiles faintly at the sight, he looked like a kid at a candy store. A big, green, scaly, less than aesthetically pleasing kid, but a kid, nevertheless. “You really upped your gear since the last time I saw you.” Waylon idly comments.

“Kinda have to.” Jason shrugs. “I’m moving up into the big leagues now. Either them or me, and I sure as hell don’t like it to be me.”

Waylon nods. The two men pick up the gear and head to the living room. He could see the gears in the crocodile’s head move, calculating and hungry. Sitting down on the sofa, Jason could see the gears click, and then he opened his mouth, “How do I know this won’t break in – say…the middle of the subway?”

Jason harrumphed, but couldn’t deny it. Their intuition kept them alive for all these years, that odd churn of their guts made them question everything. Only a fool wouldn’t listen to their gut. “I can vouch for the quality. Bats created the original design, but Roy made it his own.”

The air turns heavy.

Both of them tensed at the mention of the name, a slip of the tongue, a false security. An arid tension arises between the two. Jason shifts on the spot, closing his knees together, the knots in his stomach becoming unbearable.

Jason looks away, feeling Waylon’s eyes on him. “I heard about Roy…”

He closes his eyes. Of course, he has. He’s Roy’s sponsor, Jason wants to scream. His fingernails feel sharp against his skin. “Yeah…me, too.” It’s all he can manage to say.

“He was a good kid.”

“The best.”

The room turns cold. Silence buries the apartment with heavy air as Jason feels cold sweats form on his brow.

His skin shivers inside the heated room.

“Why are we here, Jason?” Waylon asks suddenly.

The world stops turning, and Jason could feel his hairs rise up. Tense and agitated. A state of being he has lived with for most of his second life. But he couldn’t answer.

“I’ve watched enough meat sacks like you to know when someone wakes up from a nightmare.” Jason’s skin crawls under Croc’s watchful eye. He’s smart, calculated – nothing like his body portrays him to be. “What was it about?” He asks carefully.

“It’s fine.” Jason dismisses. His throat feels raw, and his tumble out dryer than he wanted. Though he had to admit, the idea was warmly welcomed at the back of his mind. The phantom pains, the midnight screams, the fear of waking up in a cell and not his bed.

In the corner of his eyes, Jason notices Croc leaning back against the torn sofa, arms crossed. Jason didn’t like it, how judgemental he looked. Flashes of a Bat crosses his vision.

He wanted to snarl.

“I’m fine.”

“Say it again. I might actually believe you this time.” Waylon says harshly. Jason fights the primal urge to flinch. His fingers flex, knuckles popping, and the dark side of him, the ugly, crazed animal pleaded for the comforting weight of serrated steel in his hands.

Pushing against his knees, Jason bolts upwards, taking long, deliberate strides…

“Why are you running Jason?” The room freezes. Eyes wide, breath shallow, Jason can’t bear to turn around. “I’m not hurting you. I’m not using you. It’s just me, there’s no-one else. Why are you running?”

He can’t breathe, can’t swallow the bile in his throat. His back facing a man he shared a bloody history with. Croc doesn’t hold back, neither does Waylon.

An eternity passes, the cold becoming crisp and biting. “This was what you wanted, right?” Waylon asks slowly. “My friendship with Roy was a side-bonus, wasn’t it?”

“Shut up.”

Croc pushes for more and Jason couldn’t find the courage to answer, arms weak by his side. “What Roy and I had… _you_ want that, don’t you?”

A thunderclap.

Squeezing his eyes tight, he forces his throat to work, forces the words he has practiced to come to life. “Yeah…” The words stumbled out, slow and broken. “I want you to be my sponsor.”

Harley Quinn was once his prison therapist, what’s a man-eating humanoid crocodile sponsor to him now?

He didn’t have friends outside of the mask, not including Issy. Even then, he had… _tainted_ her. He couldn’t go to a normal therapist. Talking about financial crisis and stress eating, that was for normal lives for normal people. His life was shrouded in mystery and nurtured in blood. He can never have a normal life again.

He needed a new purpose, a new direction, something that meant more than just the mission. Once upon a time, he had been given his marching orders, and he had marched. A discomfort bubbles within Jason, something he couldn’t place.

And the hero community were all security risks. Bruce had his finger in every pie. Assurance, he would call it. But Jason knew better. His horrors would just be ammunition the old man could use against him. Something that would be written down on a file and referred to later.

That left the undesired. The miserable.

And there was only one undesired that he could trust. The same man Roy trusted.

“Then talk.”

Jason tilts his head to the ceiling, his old home smaller than he remembers. A miserable smile formed on Jason’s lips. “Not many people stick around long enough to listen.” He jokes.

Waylon hums. “Not like I have anywhere to go.” His words are casual, but Jason hears the undercurrent of interest. _Genuine_ interest. One born of heart, where pity was left at the door and guilt was nowhere to be seen.

He was willing to listen.

Jason found himself back on the sofa, hands clasped together, staring dead ahead. Waylon hadn’t said a word, willing to wait.

A thousand and one words swirl inside his head. He hears voices screaming for him. Some in anger, some in pain. The nightmare still fresh in his mind; Batman’s roar with each blow, Biz’s choked tears, muffled against the concrete roof and Artemis screaming bloody murder.

Gotham burned in the background.

He wished Roy was still alive. He would know what to say.

The younger man bites his lip. “I hate him.” Like that, his walls crumble. “I hate him so much.” A choked gasp echoes inside his childhood home.

For the next for moments, pain and anger bleeding him of energy. It was a colossal task just to breathe. He bites his lip. “It’s fighting, it’s always fighting with him. Like he has nothing else to do. Like he couldn’t man up, be there for his damn kid. I didn’t ask for this, this, this hell. I didn’t ask to be born. To damn cheap to buy a box of condoms and he just…”

He rambles, the floodgates open and everything he has bottled since he was twelve years old comes rushing out. He doesn’t know how longs he’s talked.

Croc had sat by to the side, not uttering a sound, Jason’s voice was the only thing that could be heard in that dimly lit room.

“I couldn’t even die on my own terms.” He chokes.

“Why do you hate him?” Waylon asked out of the blue.

Jason twirls around, anger clear on his face. But Croc stays unimpeded.

“I know anger, kid. The anger to lash out at the world. That dread, the fear of being hunted, beaten, shamed because you were born.” It strikes a cord with Jason, his anger falters. These words were too real, too… _personal_. Something Waylon needed to hear as well.

_“Why me? Why not them? What did I do?”_ Questions he has asked himself as he was curled up on the bathroom floor, a gun in his hand. One in the chamber.

“You need to forgive yourself.”

Jason blinked. “What?” His voice impossibly small.

Waylon cleared his throat, watching the contours of Jason’s body tense. “You hate him, Willis, for what he did to you, but you hate yourself more. He was gone and suddenly you became the man of the house. It was your job to provide, to keep your family safe. But no matter what you did, no matter how hard you tried, nothing you did was enough.”

Jason exhaled. Long, shaky breaths were all he could muster. “You blame yourself for your mom’s death.”

He can’t hear anything else now. His heartbeat boomed inside his head. A million things squirming inside, trying to gnaw their way out. Jason can feel Croc’s eyes, can hear his breathing, can smell his stink

His senses are on overdrive.

Jason shakes, his breathing laboured against the couch. He hated it, how vulnerable he looked. To be watched with pity, like an object that was broken. He wasn’t. He wasn’t broken. His knuckles had turned a ghastly white, but he didn’t notice.

“There was a little girl that I knew…” Croc snapped him out of his reverie.

Eyes distant and hollow. “Debby. That was her name. Cute as a button, but blind. She didn’t see me as a monster, rather she couldn’t. She treated me as a mna. A frail, broken, husk of a man, but still a man.”

Jason’s heart sped up, impossibly more so than before. He wonders how many people know about this side of Waylon. Reminiscing about past lives haunting him.

“She took me in. Gave me a home; a travelling carnival show. Filled with freaks and gutter rats.” Waylon audibly swallowed, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “It was the first time in my miserable life that I found friends. A home that I was accepted.”

“She and the others were nice – a nice little family that made room for one more freak. We were a family. Life was harsh, it was to be expected. But we were happy. Even though she couldn’t see, that little girl looked up to me like I meant something to her, like I was her everything. And I looked at her, like a saviour that I could never repay.”

“And then we got to Gotham.”

Jason heard the thunderclap. He could see it, the curse of Gotham as she took and took and took.

“The crowds were horrible. They called us names. They booed us with contempt, like their life was worth more than ours. But we held on. It was just another destination, just another day on the job before we would haul out to greener pastures.”

Jason wanted it to stop. He didn’t want to listen anymore.

“But there were two brats who wanted more. They harassed Betty, feeling tough when they could pick on a blind, defenceless little girl. So, I stopped them, had them shipped off with the GCPD. Thought it was the end, that we would pack up the tent and be on our merry way.”

Jason’s heart shattered, hearing the faintest of hiccups from this beast of a man. He looked so tough, so wild and feral, that it hurt to see such a man break down in front of him.

“But they came back. They came back prepared.”

_‘No, shut up. Shut up.’_ Jason didn’t want to hear this. This was too personal, too painfully raw.

“Homemade bombs. Because of my genetic condition, I survived the blast…the others…the others didn’t.”

Just like many others, Jason forgot there was a man underneath the beast. A hot trickle falls down his cheek. He rubs his eyes franticly, unable to stop the torrent fall.

“And every day since, I have been blaming myself for what happened that night. Wishing that I was the one left to rot in the ground while the others had a chance to live their lives. Lives I took from them.” His confession was blisteringly raw. A sniffle rung out, deep and entrenching, but broken and desolate.

“And I couldn’t even give her a decent burial. GCPD didn’t know any better. Just a humanoid crocodile with a dead girl in his hands. Shoot first, never asked questions later.”

_Shoot first, never ask questions later._

That hit Jason far harder than he would have liked. Once upon a time, that would have been him. Once upon a time, he would have gladly put a bullet in Croc’s skull. Because that’s what people only saw; the monster.

Batman looked at him with the same eyes.

“But I have come to live with myself. Even found someone to love me. Every bit of me.” Jones turns to him, eyes watery. “What I did, what I didn’t do, it would have still happened. With or without me, the carnival would have found its way to Gotham, those two punks would still be there. There was nothing I could have done, nothing that could have stopped it all.”

“It was fate.” Waylon admits painfully. “And I have to live with that.”

Croc snatches his head, forcing him to meet his eyes. The scales on his hands rub roughly against his skin, the tips of his claws slightly digging in. Jason winces slightly, drawing blood but Waylon never let’s go, the yellow of his eyes unwavering. The pain grounds him, pulls him back from the abyss and the floodgates open.

Tears form, the murky water trickles down his cheek. “You. Were. Just. A. Kid.”

It’s anything but gentle. Heartbeat picks up, uncontrollable, sporadic. Waylon holds steadfast, a thousand words went unsaid, but Jason heard it. Each more powerful than the last.

“I’m not telling you to forgive Willis or ruin memories of your mom…” Jason hiccups, his walls torn down, left defenceless against… _everything_. “But for almost two decades you’ve been living in this hell that you’ve created; it needs to stop. If not for yourself, then do it for Roy, do it for Bizarro. You deserve to live Jason, whether or not you think so; You. Deserve. To. Live.”

The tears cascade. Broken hiccups were met with steely determination. Waylon never let go of his head. His eyes piercing through Jason’s muddled doubts.

Jason doesn’t know how much time had passed. His cries had dimed, and the sniffles had rescinded. Like a floodgate, his energy drains out of him. Too worn to fight back.

Not once did Waylon look away.

Slowly, carefully, through stinging eyes and saw throat, Jason feels the razor-sharp claws retract. The soft tissue of his throat was blaring hot. But he doesn’t care. He wipes his eyes against his foreman, desperate to run, hide, scream, kick.

Anything that didn’t make him feel like… _this._

The silence is deafening, the sounds of the city barely breaches the old torn walls. Jason takes a deep breath through his nose, holding it in before slowly exhaling through his mouth. He does it a few more times, feeling his heart calm down, Croc’s words sinking in with each breath.

_You deserve to live._

He repeats it in his mind like he’s trying to convince himself that it’s true.

_“I deserve to live. I deserve to live.”_

He doesn’t feel any better. His heart still feels torn open. But he knows, maybe better than anyone, starting over was a painful process.

He’ll repeat it as many times as he needs to. Until he believes it.

Until he believes in himself.

“Family isn’t a right, it’s a privilege. One that must be earned.” Waylon looks back at the wall, the leather couch grows hot underneath Jason’s legs. His head was swimming, like he was in a daze. It felt… _wrong_ hearing someone else say it, listening to someone agree with the silent thoughts in his head. “You fought for their trust. When have they ever fought for yours?”

He’s blunt, devastatingly so. Jason tries thinks back, trying to separate himself from his own memories, like a third party analysing a recording. He couldn’t find any memories that weren’t tainted – on _both_ sides.

Waylon drinks in the atmosphere, the rancid smell of betrayal lingers in the air. He hums as if he knows he’s hit his mark.

The flaring pain of Jason’s fingernails digging into his own palm was the only thing that could ground him.

A moment later. “What will you do now?” Croc asks, as if Jason finally has the answers he’s been searching for his whole life.

“I’m going to fight.” Jason replied instantly. A harden look crossed his face.

“The Justice League shouldn’t be underestimated.”

“They shouldn’t underestimate me.” He feels his blood pumping. Alive. “Them or me.” He swears.

Waylon looks over to him, the morning glow shines brighter through the curtains, illuminating Croc’s viscously sharp grin.

Jason stares at his fists. Dry as the desert, his fingertips cracked and worn from overuse. His knuckles scarred and tempered. His palm calloused and rough. These hands had kept him alive. In the heat of the moment. In the calm of meditation.

He had been trained in every manner of warfare. Moulded into a weapon. A _better_ weapon. This time Talia did not allow him to falter. She hired the best and anything short of perfection was an insult to her name. He was retrained how to hurt, how to get hurt. He relearned the difference between psychological pain and physical pain. _“Pain is subjective, Tayir. You can let it control you, or you can control it. Remember; pain is temporary, defeat is forever.”_

He learnt how to be a monster.

“I became strong.” Jason says. “Strong enough so no-one can hurt me.”

That’s how he tries to move on from his past; by destroying it.

People always say, _‘accept the past, move on with the future’_. But he couldn’t accept it, because what happened to him – with the Joker, with Bruce and everything in between – should have never happened, not to him or anyone else, but it did, and there was no way in hell he would accept something like that.

It’s brutal, painful and callous. Going after people he cared for, making sure the bridges would be burnt forever. _“Them or me.”_ He always thought.

But he tried. By god, did he try. He toned it down, helped out from time to time, went to family gatherings, talked to people, cared for them. Tried to move on from everything to do with the Joker, with Willis, with his life.

But he should have known better.

Give Bruce an inch and the man demands a mile.

Nothing he does will ever be enough.

He should have never come back to Gotham.

_“This was never about fixing you, Jason.”_ Bruce had said one night, back when he was Robin. The old man had taken him to Thomas’ and Martha’s grave. A tradition for the Robin internship program. To show what it all means; the hurt, the pain, the conviction that turned Bruce into Gotham’s dark knight. _“This was about giving you a chance. You were born into unfortunate circumstances, you had to live with your parent’s choices, not yours.”_

There was a resonance with his words, something to hold onto and cherish. Something to believe in.

It was a load of crock.

Jason had learnt early on what it means to believe in the white collar, socialite preaches. That was ‘Brucie Wayne’ talking to him. The Wayne that had good intentions at heart, but never revealed all of his cards, unless it benefitted him.

In front of his own parent’s graves, Jason thought he would have opened up.

He thought wrong.

_“You didn’t hire me to give me a chance, Bruce. This was never about fixing me. It was always about fixing you.”_ Jason spat and as he walked away from Thomas’ and Martha’s graves, he expressed his true feelings on that rainy night. _“Next time you pick a new sidekick, you better make sure you tell that to their face.”_

He had trudged away, back to the manor, maybe even back to the cave, ready to relieve his anger on some punching bags.

He’s lived with that knowledge for years; Bruce had never brought it up again. He hadn’t even tried to stop him that night…

…or tried to deny it.

Jason bubbled away, the raw anger bristles and snaps. Bruce was at the forefront of his mind, the hate was blood red. But it wasn’t just Bruce he hated. Hidden in the corner, in a dusty box of memories laid unopened; he hated himself.

He had believed he was special.

He wasn’t the original Boy Wonder. Everyone loved him. He cheered, people laughed, ‘A clearer vision of what Batman should be’. Bruce’s words, not his. No-one could compare with Dick. Jason couldn’t even compete with Tim, the boy who chose to be Robin – not the other way around. Whom forced himself into Bruce’s life to pick up the pieces.

And there was Damian, the blood son. The holy demanding epitome of self-worth and heritage.

Jason was just a kid who happened to be at the right place at the right time. That left a bitter taste in his mouth. Bruce would have never bothered if Dick hadn’t run off to Jump City.

_Dick…_

The name causes confusing emotions he wishes he doesn’t have.

Jason has given him a lot of shit throughout the years. Didn’t exactly earn Big Brother of the Year awards when Jason lived at the manor, but he would be damn hypocritical if he didn’t admit he didn’t either.

Back when Jason first came back as Red Hood, Dick had fought him, many times. Even brought him to Arkham. Jason doesn’t blame him for it. He had a job; he was Batman and Jason was going after his family.

He shot Damian for Christ’s sake.

There was always going to be bad blood between them. Almost as much as there was with Bruce.

But he does respect him, Dick, he’s always respected him. To be able to smile like an idiot, no matter how tough it was, is to be the strongest person in the world. That takes a special strength, something Jason nor Bruce could never have.

But he sided with Bruce.

They all did.

Jason wears the scars of that night with ugly conviction.

“Don’t be afraid to lose people who weren’t there for you.” Waylon says, as if reading his thoughts. “They weren’t there when you needed them, they do not get to be there when you don’t. Your life is not a convenience they get to pick and choose from. It’s your life, not theirs.”

Croc’s teachings finally reach his ear. Jason’s pulse was racing, his heart was pounding so loud he could hear it.

“He’s crying above a grave that has no corpse in it. You do not need to fill it for him and you certainly as fuck, do not require to cry beside him. If this life you’re living isn’t what he wants, then tough luck, but that’s not on you.”

That life he wanted, that hope he lived with was dead. That Jason Todd was dead.

“You don’t owe them shit.”

He keeps wailing it in and Jason feels the hammer against nail each and every time.

“And if they can’t see that, then that’s their problem. But I would be a damn fool and a poor excuse of a sponsor if I don’t help you see it yourself.”

There was a rough camaraderie with Waylon. Maybe from a time when he looked after Roy and had somehow been transferred over to him. A burning curiosity roars inside Jason, fuelled by something he wouldn’t call ‘Justice’ but tantalisingly close.

They talk some more, about Jason, about Bruce and everything in between. He asks just enough about the plan until he knows his purpose, careful not to ask too much. The less chance Batman knew about the mission, the better. The briefing was stripped of proper nouns and only a burner phone without any contacts was handed over.

For a brief moment in time, Jason could let loose, relax and ease his mind. This uneasy rapport with Croc felt unknown. The living room was barely lit, sunlight growing as the clock ticks by.

After a while. “What now?” Croc asks. Jason has a distinct feeling he’s not asking about Bruce.

“I don’t know. Family, stability, belonging…the kid who wanted all that ended up six-feet under, someone else came out.”

“Take it from a guy whose entire life was decided for him the moment he was born with green skin. You can go a lot farther than you think you can.”

Jason snorts. “That’s some spiritual mumbo-jumbo your spouting, big guy.”

The lines of Waylon’s brows crunched together. A fierceness engrossed his face. “Then why am I your sponsor?” Jason shuts his mouth tight.

Waylon sighs heavily; the full bodied, deep bellied sigh that sounded like he’s experienced this situation one too many times. “I get it; you deflect. You joke. Change the subject. Lash out. Anything you can hide behind.” Jason feels his heart pulsating. “You can lie through your teeth when it comes to Batman, but don’t play me for a fool, Jason.”

“I see it in you. That fire. That strength. You fight because you have to, because you want to. You fight because you want to win.” Croc flicks a finger at Jason’s chest. A faint metallic chime was heard. “You’re just like Roy, trying to keep things close to your chest. Bearing the burden until it becomes too much. Idiots, the both of you.”

Jason casts his eyes downward, his limbs feel heavy, weighing him down. Artemis and him. He’s lost count of the hours he had spent imagining a life with her. He’s lost count of the amount of times he has found himself daydreaming about what to say when he’s on his knee, heart bursting out of his chest.

But that was for normal people, with normal problems. He’s broken. Dirty. Damaged. Happiness was something he had to fight for. People like him, _castaways_ like him don’t get to be happy.

Croc growls, a deep, animalistic rumble. “Even in his darkest of times, he wanted what was best for you.” Jason feels like he got shot through the heart. “If you want to live, then I’m gonna fucking teach you how to live.”

His legs are stiff, creaking, his arms feel heavy by his side. He shouldn’t have this. _Teach you how to live._ Waylon’s voice comes back in waves and he feels wrong.

He shouldn’t…

“I need to take a walk.” He said suddenly.

Without acknowledging Waylon, he bounds onto his feet, taking large strides to the apartment door, not before slipping into the kitchen and grabbing an EMP Camouflage Watch for himself. He selected a random male, Caucasian, stocky fit, red hair, blue eyes. The visual scrambler travels up his body, and he hides the shiver that follows.

Grabbing a couple of knives and his SIG Sauer, he dons a large fit grey hoodie, and rushed through the door, mind a mess and walked briskly out onto Gotham’s busy streets.

Waylon didn’t try to stop him.

The smell was the first thing that hit him. Car fumes and trash assaulted his senses, an ugly reminder home. Hoodie pulled over his head, moving at a trepid pace, the world around him was familiar and unknown at the same time.

The streets were his home, his livelihood. Gotham City had two faces. One for day and one for night. Bright and early, he watched the goings of Gotham pick itself up for another day. There was barely a soul to be seen as he walked through Gotham as the nightly element transitioned to a new day.

For a sweet moment in time, he was alone with Gotham.

She was a cruel but beautiful mistress. He loved her. Sometimes, he hates himself for it. She took and took and took, but he always came back, even after everything, he always came back.

As the sun began to peak, as morning diners began to fill up, Jason took note of his surroundings. Give or take a few dents, Gotham, Park Row hadn’t really changed too much since he’s been gone. His eyes flutter over a street camera, and it feels weird walking out in public, right under the Bats noses and not have the entire justice force rain hell on him.

He desperately fights the urge to not look at the thumb size hidden camera carefully attached to the underside of a traffic light. Barb’s old Oracle systems were still in place, it seemed.

Hoping to clear his mind, he lets his imagination wander. He stares at street corners, where lamp posts were riddled with tapings of missing cats and ads for mom & pop diners, the same corners where girls worked. Skimpily clad, bright bling and cakey makeup, they giggled and wriggled as men felt the contours of their bodies. It was part of the job. Batting their eyelashes, puckering their lips; money was money. It didn’t matter if it came from the Ritz-Carlton or behind the dumpster of Denny’s.

Everyone learnt early on what it meant to survive; prostitutes, gunrunners, drug mules, thieves.

Jason was no exception.

The first time he had introduced Artemis to Downtown Gotham, he felt that stone, cold rage swallow him whole. He loved the city with a burning fire, and it hurt seeing the stubborn stain latch on to everything good.

Brash ruffians whistled and catcalled Artemis, their hands were less than discreet along their inner thigh. But then they saw the look in Jason’s eyes, the gaze of a man unfazed by blood, and had effectively decided if she belonged to him, then it would be better to keep their mouths shut.

Artemis had scowled, the air around her was murderous. Jason doesn’t know what would have happened if he wasn’t there to stop her.

That was years ago now. And Gotham – the dark lady she was – took claim of Artemis, took the Outlaws as her own children. She was a curse. A curse Jason had been trying so hard to fight.

It took Artemis and Bizarro from him. He fought back, tooth and nail, but that was merely the prelude. Artemis’ rescue was going to make Biz’s look like child’s play.

But the wheels of fate were already turning, and he had to move with it. He will turn Gotham on its head if he has to, but he will find his answers. Batman be damned. He did not spend the better part of two years planning to acquire crumbs. But a niggling thought echoed in his skull, about the one part of the plan he had yet to figure out. One area that remained… _grey_ ;

How the bloody hell was he going to break into Themiscyra?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi.
> 
> Once again, sorry for the long wait. I would just like to point out that yes, that graveyard interaction is canon. In some RHATO comic that I'm too lazy to find. I don't know the correct wording, but I got close enough.
> 
> Also, since we have finally reached the point in the story that I can talk about it, (a) I know Willis is alive and (b) Roy might also be alive as well, but for the sake of this story, they are both dead. This is where I proceed to hide underneath a rock as you come at me with pitchforks but trust me when I say this, there is a reason why I kept them dead and that will be explored much, much later.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, talk to you soon.


	15. Remains of Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home is where the heart is. And if your heart has been taken, it’s where you plan for revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone,  
> Time has flown by and everything's been a little hectic, but I've finally finished another chapter. Just a note, the link below is a map I found on @Lysical tumblr page, which is a map of Gotham City. There are other variations with sectors put in different places, but I'll be basing off locations off of this map.
> 
> https://lysical-secondary.tumblr.com/image/161342870081

Gotham throbbed.

Like a pulsating movement, it would always come back in waves. Jason was all too accustomed to it all, the sights, the sounds, the smells. Walking outside, into the belly of the beast, for the first time in years, Gotham reminded him his place in her city.

He was almost ran over.

A beat up Honda Civic screeched hauntingly close to his knee caps. “Watch it, Shithead.” The loud honk of the horn was pointless, as it was drowned out by a million other sirens, each more persistent than the last.

The driver speeds off angrily – despite Jason being a foot off the curb – driving to another dead-end job in another dead-end part of town.

Jason merely shakes his head. “Fuckin’ Gotham.”

People walk past, eyes down, jackets wrapped tightly around, the nights getting colder as November clocks by. Not much has changed when he’s been gone. A few dents here and there, but nothing seasoned Gothamites weren’t used to. He nods approvingly at how well the Hoods have maintained their claim.

They’re resilient, he’ll give them that.

Gotham, his city, his people, his vengeance.

Jason walked past security cameras in broad daylight. His new face was weirdly him and yet, not at all. Square jaw, smooth nose, but the sharpness of his face and the newly acquired hair didn’t sit well with him. If he squinted his eyes, in the hazy reflection of a nearby window, Roy looked back at him.

Strong arms, shocking red hair and a five o’clock shadow that always itched.

Roy would probably say something right now, arm clasped around Jason’s shoulder, hugging him tight in the way he secretly liked and rattle off about anything and everything that popped into his head. It was Roy’s way of dealing with things, it keeps his mind active and his hands steady. Jason never had the chance to tell him how much he liked the noise.

He missed Roy.

Roy would be the first man in line to help Jason. Front and centre. His ride or die. Maybe he could have built something to take on the magic of the island, help him bypass the shield with less brute force than Jason intends to.

_A true friend._

But that is what-ifs and have-nots that he can’t afford to think about anymore.

In many ways, Jason’s life wasn’t his own anymore. It was Roy’s, Biz’s, Art’s, Talia’s. It was Gotham’s. They pumped his blood, stitched him back together, rallied under uncertainty and persevered through difficulty. This war, this vengeance, it will take a special kind of strength, one he can’t find alone.

By the time the last rays of bleak Gotham sun peaked over the horizon, Jason had already returned to his former home.

Croc was still sitting on the couch, he noticed. Eyes distant, yet present. Jason swallowed the lump in his throat. He liked that in Waylon, he appreciated it. Never asking more than he could handle but pushed when needed.

With a dip of his head, he went to the bathroom and clean himself up.

That night, hunched over the dining table, eating takeout from Wong’s, Jason had courteously muttered a quick ‘thank you’ before diving into his Chow Mein. Waylon had merely hummed in acknowledgement, ignoring Biz’s confused stare.

The meal, needless to say, was immense. It could have fed a small town as it was the closest thing to a home cooked meal Bizarro and Croc had eaten in a while. Jason needed them in tip-top shape. They had to order another batch from Lee’s down the road, and when Jason couldn’t take another bite, they ordered another from Chang’s. By the end of the night, the kitchen waste bin was piled high with empty takeout boxed and crumpled fortunes.

Now, with a fresh mind and a night’s rest, Jason was wound tight with jitters. Croc had left early in the morning; taking his EMP camouflage and burner phone with him.

Jason had a feeling he would see him again, when the time was ripe.

The remaining two waited until the afternoon, filling the hours with prep. Jason had been extra careful in explaining Biz with the plan. He was not demeaning his friend, nor was he not trusting him either. Simply put, finesse and anonymity were characteristics Bizarro was not known for.

God knows the amount of times Biz had snitched to Artemis, resulting in Jason being in the doghouse.

By mid-afternoon, Jason had packed the essentials, carrying the go-bag himself while Biz hauled the sparse number of items they considered luggage.

Leaving his childhood home was easier than he expected. Faint ghosts whispered out to him, maybe the memory of his mom still lingered somewhere within these walls. It’s hearty and soulful, pushing him out rather than dragging him back in.

Maybe Catherine was doing the one thing she never had the chance to; watch her little bird leave the nest to become the man she knew he would.

He vowed to come back and visit, like any good son would.

Outside, basking in the afternoon sun, Jason’s nose wrinkled from the stale air of exhaust fumes and cigarette smoke. Biz followed closely behind, apprehensive and fearful. Shoulders hunched, eyes wide.

The Sanctum had really done a number on him.

Jason was glad he tore that place down to the bone.

Movement caught his eye, just across the street. A traffic camera. In the dark recesses of his mind, he could have sworn it moved. “Let’s go.” He urged Biz. “I don’t like it here.”

Biz hurried behind as the sun began to set. Jason was confidant in his tech, he had kept the red-haired character from before, set a false pattern for people to follow. Biz’s outfit did something a little more tragic. It made him look _normal._ He had kept his physique, but the clear white skin, the sharp brown eyes and the new bed of curly hair didn’t sit well with Jason.

He missed seeing his friend.

_It’s just part of the mission, just part of the mission._ A giant green neon sign flashed inside his head.

With the gnawing itch of cameras watching him, it had taken him longer than he would have liked, moving throughout the city. He held the shudder of eyes on him, but stayed in character, moving like he belonged.

Part of the deception was believing it; the half-truths, the carefully woven lies wrapped around a core of fact. It made division easier, the act can only be as effective as the emotions behind it. If he moved too quick, peeked over his shoulder one too many times, have his nerves wound tight, trained operatives could spot him a mile away.

A red flag in a sea of green.

As night approaches, taking another step deeper into the bowels of Crime Alley, Jason got to finally see firsthand the remnants of that night.

Seeing it, looking at the black soot cling to remnants of corrugated steel, the toppled remains of brick walls lying forgotten on the ground, felt different than looking at a report. Maybe it wasn’t forgotten, rather just too painful to put back together. From the look of Biz’s face, Jason guessed it was the second.

Jason didn’t need to see more. He had read the files, the body counts, the morgue photos, the ballistics reports and staying around, at night, out in the open for whatever satellite Bruce had trained on this position, he wasn’t going to risk it.

He was not running away…

He wasn’t.

The thrum of his heart smothers the chant in his head; _Focus on the mission, focus on the mission, focus –_

Something caught his eyes. He stopped, heart palpating. In a nondescript alley, hiding behind shadows, was a painting. One he knows wasn’t there before.

He forces himself to check it out. Biz follows suit as Jason nears and he was right; it was a painting. _A mural_. Etched on the brick wall, not half a block away from one of his greatest failures, was a gargoyle hugging a tombstone;

_“Here lies those that were loved and lost. The ones that will never be forgotten.”_

It was beautifully done, the stonework was painted with chips and cracks, as all 38 names; the ones who were executed, the ones who died quickly by the explosions and the ones who didn’t by fire, were forever memorialised.

His heart broke upon further inspection as he realised none of the handwriting were the same. Some were written with deep, purposeful strokes of a paintbrush, but others, like “Amanda Karlyle” weren’t. This one was brokenly written in a faint red crayon.

_A child’s handwriting._

He stared dumbly at the name; a burning rage erupted deep inside his soul. He could see it now, like a picture burned into his memory, of a child, with a face he can’t make out, crying against old brickwork, trying to love the last memories of a woman that thought the world of them.

Crying about a woman he couldn’t save.

Jason knew, when he finds the bastard responsible, that he will enjoy each excruciating second as he slowly carves the skin off their body.

And when they are broken, begging on the floor for mercy, only then will he go deeper.

He forces his eyes to look somewhere else, somewhere that didn’t want him to break down every door in Gotham county and beat every thug to an inch of their life until he gets the truth.

It would be so easy, to let go to the rage. To be nothing more than an engine of vengeance.

His eyes land to the small puddles of hardened candle wax on the ground. Thousands of colours mixed in one heaping bundle of wax. Old flowers, once fresh and beautiful, now withered and aged passed their use by dates laid to the side.

It was all just one bad memory.

But it was still one Gotham had to move on from. _Nothing lasts forever_. A stain in the memory of Gotham, but they had to move on. Pick themselves up again, live, love and if fate wills it, die on their own terms.

Although with a clear mind, Jason realised, even after all this time, this sight was still being taken cared for.

The area was swept clean, not a speck of trash in sight. The paintwork vibrant, in some places restored. Someone was carrying on the duty of preserving this memory, no matter how bad it was. Maybe as a lesson in the cruelty of man, maybe a reminder to be strong, strong enough so no-one can ever hurt them again.

“Not many folks come by this part of town nowadays.” A voice calls out.

Both Jason and Biz swivel their heads to the alleyway entrance. A young boy, no older than 16, stared warily, his hoodie pulled over his head.

Thomas.

“I’ve been working overseas for a while,” Jason plays the act, “when I came back, I heard the stories. Didn’t believe it, not at first. Figured I should go and check.”

Thomas nods his head, hands hidden behind his back. A knife, he puts together. _‘Good boy,’_ Jason thought. “Who’s that?” Thomas jerks at Biz. His eyes flitting over the large, titan of a man, sheepishly hiding behind Jason.

“A friend,” he answered, “just got out of the slammer a couple days ago. Wanted to see the sights.”

“Not much to see. Just old buildings and older folks.” Thomas shifts, peering out of the alley. “If you want,” he said slowly, “I can give you a tour of what we have left.”

Jason scrunches his brows, taking in the untrained gleam of the hidden knife. That’s who the kid perceived him to be; a threat. “I don’t intend to be around long enough to know,” he said. Up on the rooftops, Jason hears shuffling. Out of the corner of his eyes, Biz twitches.

Reinforcements, other Hoods.

And that meant noise.

“No, really, I –”

“Nothing for nothing, something for something.” Jason cuts in.

Thomas visibly stills. It’s an old saying on the streets. Nothing is free of charge, you got to pay to play. Not many people nowadays said it anymore, it was old-school…

Hood lingo. “Oh…” Thomas panes.

Jason can see it, the cogs beginning to turn. Thomas was taut, shallow shaky breathes. With a flick of his wrists, the noise above dies down.

“But if you insist,” Jason stretches, “Sheldon’s not too far away from here.”

A beat. Then a nod.

He moves, with Biz and Thomas lagging behind. The silence was deafening, and Jason could hear the confusion from the Hoods up high.

The masks followed the trio, up high, ready to protect their leader if necessary.

A block into their walk, Thomas finally speaks up. “Are you sure this is safe? Us and Ivy aren’t exactly tight.”

Jason snorts. “Don’t worry. She owes me.”

Apparently, it was enough to sate Thomas’ curiosity for the time being. A few turns later and the trio were finally at the entrance of Sheldon’s Park. A quaint little sea-side park that overlooked the eastern shores, with Robert Kane Memorial Bridge to the left, leading up to Wayne Manor and Robbinsville, following Cape Carmine to the right.

Jason could sense Thomas’ apprehension. It wasn’t Robinson’s, but at the end of the day, it was still a park. But Jason knew better.

They walked further in, towards the bayside railings, far away from prying eyes and cameras. He turned, switching his EMP camouflage off, Biz doing the same.

Thomas launched himself at him.

Jason snaps, arms at the ready, muscles firing. It took him a moment for Jason to realise, it was a hug.

Tentatively, he wraps his arounds around the kid. He had grown, Jason noticed. The top of Thomas’ head just reached his chin. Under his fingers, Jason could still feel some meat on those bones; skinny but not malnourished.

“You asshole,” Thomas sniffs, “you absolute, fucking asshole.”

Jason chuckles, the rumble in his chest rustles Thomas. “I missed you too, kid.”

A muffled sound came from his chest.

“What was that?”

Thomas pulls back, face taut with indignation. “I’m not a kid.”

Jason snorts, “Did it make the little baby mad? Want me to kiss your wittle forehead?”

He laughs as Thomas takes a swipe at him. “Cut that shit out, J. That wasn’t funny two years ago, it sure as shit ain’t funny now.”

Jason can’t help but have a fond smile on his face. Before he could say anything Thomas turns to Bizarro, giving him an even tighter hug.

_‘Traitor.’_ Jason almost pouts.

Almost.

“Hello, little him,” Biz greets, picking him up underneath the armpits and throwing him in the air.

Jason laughed as Thomas screeched in the air. He lands back in Biz’s arms, hair tussled, out of breath. “Holy shit, B. Don’t do that to –”

Biz throws him again.

Jason doubles over in laughter, listening to this cocky little shit scream like a schoolgirl. It was something Biz used to do with the kids, take them on flights, throw them in the air, have them climb him like a tree.

Thomas lands in Biz’s arms once again, but instead of putting him down, the big guy placed little Tommy on his shoulders. Jason had to look up to meet his eyes. “Having fun up there?”

“Shut up,” he barks, unable to hide his blush.

Jason laughs once more and begins walking alongside the water. Biz hops along, with Thomas still on his shoulders.

The kid looks at peace, hands gripping Biz’s hair like handlebars. Jason leaves him be, knowing it wouldn’t hurt B.

The silence hangs for a moment, the three of them walked with a serene calm and soft smiles.

“I heard about the JT restoration project…” Jason lands on a conversation piece. Although he almost sneers at the name.

He looks up and was met with a sour look.

“What? The development project doesn’t sound that bad. A fucking inconvenience, sure, and it’s got blue blood written all over it, but it’s a good thing,” he rambles.

Thomas twitches at the mention of blue blood. It was a commonly hated topic on the streets. Promises after promises, people kept getting their hopes up on promises of a better tomorrow, but it’s never delivered.

Park Row didn’t need politicians, it needed action.

“I’ve ‘eard the spiel as well, J. We all ‘ave, it’s a load of bullshit.”

Jason scrunched his brows. Was he missing something? He had heard the news broadcasts, seen Bruce take those conferences with some old hag by his side. For the most part he wanted to punch the screen every time Bruce mentioned his name.

It was seriously petty.

But Jason couldn’t wrap his head around it. New schools, a better public library, a bigger budget for the state hospital –

Oh…

_Oh._

“I’ve seen the drawings,” Thomas gravely admitted. “A few months back, I took some of the boys with me and broke our way into City Hall. The plans, Jay, they’re massive.”

Jason didn’t like where this was going.

“Then I saw the fine print.”

The corporate way of saying ‘fuck you’.

“For ‘em to move the project, they’re going to cordon off the Alley. All of it. And they’re taking the Bowery and some of Robbinsville with ‘em.”

Thomas hops off Biz’s shoulders, turning towards the city. He points out at the skyline, everything their eyes could see. “Everything you see ‘ere; _off-limits._ It’ll take years. No-one ‘ere can wait that long for a new home, and even if they could, it’s too high.”

“What is?” Jason asked, even though he knew the answer.

“The rent,” Thomas said, “it’s too high. New means money. New roads, new apartment complexes, new this, new that, new _everything._ It’s gotta be paid somehow.”

Jason couldn’t fault that. A civil construction job of this size, even Bruce didn’t have the liquid assets the fund the entire thing.

No-one here could afford those prices; they could barely afford the rent they already had. This was more than a development plan; this was a segregation. With no poor living in a state-of-the-art sector, it would pave the way for the rich and wealthy.

“Why didn’t you tell someone?”

“Who’s there to tell?” Thomas pointedly answered. “We’re Hoods! With _stolen_ documents! The pigs are more likely to arrest the lot of us than actually look into it. And even if they did, everything is above board. They’ve got politicians in their back pockets.”

For the faintest of moments, Jason almost defended Bruce. The guy would pay fifteen bucks for a cup of coffee and not even blink. His concept of normality and the masses were horrendous, but he was still a good person.

But that meant involving Batman. And that was a grey area. On one hand, he might help, on another, it could just be another tool to help him find Jason.

Jason clenches his fist, feeling a rage course through him. He had once believed in Batman, now he’s not so sure. How the hell hasn’t Bruce picked up on this? He had the funds, he had the pull, what was he doing?

Although, in reality, Jason already knew what Bruce was doing.

Looking for him.

This feud has been going on for too long.

“People are going to die, J.”

In that moment, Jason’s heart splintered like broken glass.

“Fuck, I’m trying, man.” Thomas’s voice hitch and Jason hates himself in that moment.

This wasn’t what he wanted for his kids, Thomas shouldn’t be doing any of this, but he is because Jason isn’t there to help.

“I set up shop at an old orphanage, setting up beds and food for families but it’s not enough and I…I don’t know what to do, J. The cops are getting dirtier, hands are being greased with city officials and I’m freaking out –”

“Hey, hey.” Jason soothed, putting a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “I’ll fix this. I’ll fix all of this, but I need time.”

Thomas sniffed, but he didn’t seem too convinced.

He was a smart kid and could definitely put two and two together. Only two of the Outlaws stood before him, not three.

Jason’s mind was in overdrive, his window of opportunity was rapidly closing. This had just created a whole new set of problems he didn’t want to think about. A new mission. One that needed him to go loud. He couldn’t do it, not now. That would make the target on his back visible.

He needed to clear his name first.

But from the sounds of it, the plans would be set in motion soon.

“Fuck,” he swore. “Fuck!”

He needed to work, _fast._

Step one; clear his name.

_‘Easier said than done.’_

“Okay,” Jason breathed, “catch me up on the underground. What’s there to know?”

Thomas hops onto a park bench, overseeing the bay. His sits on top of the back rest, feet on seat.

 “After your beatdown, punks starting poppin’ out wanting to claim some territory. Turfs wars every second day, trying to get the scraps left behind by Falcone and Black Mask. We couldn’t do much, not at first, barely knew what we were doing the first day on the job. Instead, we sat back and recorded anything of interest.

“Apart from the big leaguers, four new players entered the game. Nothing we haven’t seen before. Micro-penis jocks in balaclavas, you know the ones. First one came in a week after you left, burrowed themselves into a nifty hole whilst the Justice League were playing fireman. The O’Malleys. They’re some kind of brother branch of the Irish Mob, strongarmed those old English Pubs down on West. Our man inside the GCPD says the O’Malleys are ex-NRA, Irish paramilitary. Dishonourably discharged. Some of the things they did make my old man look like a saint. But that’s all we know so far. GCPD databases have been pretty limited after we pushed them out of the district.

“Couple of months after that, some freaks decided to paint themselves in white and call themselves the Jokerz. That’s Jokerz with a ‘Z’.” Jason bristled in his seat. _Fanatics._ “They kill, raid and burn anything they set their sights on. They don’t do it for money, or power, or even to send a message. The Joker is the only thing they care about. Anarchy, death by fire and brimstone, total loss of control.”

Jason sat there dumbfounded. _A Joker cult?_ He knew Gotham was bad, that it infects its inhabitants to the worst of the worst, but a following for a mass murderer, _his murderer._

“Didn’t work out too well with them. Joker was less than pleased about the whole thing, started hunting them down, made fine art with their corpses, telling the underground there can only be one. Whoever was left went underground.”

Why the hell hadn’t Batman nipped this in the bud?

Was Bruce that preoccupied trying to find him that he was letting his work slip?

“—then the Hoods came back.”

Jason snapped back into reality. “Wait, Hoods?”

Thomas rolled his eyes, looking far too alike to someone Jason once knew. “We ain’t the only Hoods around town. Remnants of the old Red Hood gang came out of the woodwork, nasty sons of bitches. They made quite an entrance coming back into play, rigged one of their guys up with plastique and took a kamakazi run at the Mayor. Batman dropped him before he could, saved the guy, can’t say much about the entrance to City Hall.

“Once that happened, Batman waged war on all Hoods. Thought the two of us were one and the same. Word is, Batman’s been trying to round ‘em up, probably thinking they know where you are. We tend to just let him do his thing, let him run around in circles finding nothing.”

Jason felt a corner of his lips curl. Bruce must be driving himself up the wall, running into dead ends. It makes Jason’s job that much easier. “What about the last gang?”

“They don’t have a name, not really. Some of the boys started calling them the Nobodies.”

“How so?”

“This new gang,” Thomas waved his hand, trying to form the words, “they’re barely a gang. Adrenaline junkies. Frat boys with a testosterone overload,” Thomas shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. “A few B&E’s, few assault charges, a couple hate crimes, nothing major.”

Jason bristles. _‘Nothing major’_. Just another day in sunny Gotham.

“It’s weird, though,” Thomas scrunched his brow, biting his lip, “with the power vacuum you left and every two-bit thug with a brain cell gunning for your empty seat, the Nobodies were the only ones that set up shop outside of Downtown Gotham.”

That caught Jason’s interest. “Where at?”

“The Dixon Docks,” Thomas answered, “on the other side of town by China Town.” Thomas pursed his lips, as if a sudden thought popped into his head. “We don’t really go down there, too far out of our territory, but one time, a few of their boys ventured further out of their stomping ground, hitting up the Upper West Side, a few of them got caught, but none of the charges stuck. You know how the pigs are. Corrupt the lot of ‘em. Missing paperwork my ass.”

Jason’s face was unreadable, intently listening. “Interesting.” He commented.

“Why? They’re nobodies.”

“And that’s what I’m worried about,” Jason said. “In my line of work, being a somebody puts a target on your back. A nobody is a ghost. Someone people don’t even bother a second glance with.”

There’s a faraway look in his eyes as he tries to wrap his head around the new intel.

The dots began to connect.

“Not a bad base of ops either – the Dixon Docks. Nowhere near the Bowery, they’ve got Brown Bridge going West onto the mainland and China Town to the East has good cover, half that joint is filled with illegals. The cameras around there are just for show, shop owners don’t like the man connecting undocumented immigrants to their shop, bad for business.”

Not to mention shipping. A mass of cargo can be shipped into and out of Gotham with ease. No matter how often the Bats intervened, they couldn’t check each and every container that docks on those waters. It’s how the crime families were still making their rounds.

But why make their presence known? It didn’t make sense.

They should have kept their existence a surprise, hide until the time is ripe. Maybe Jason was overthinking it all, maybe Thomas was right. Maybe the Nobodies were just another gang, insecure machos that had nothing to lose.

But Jason didn’t like maybes. This blatant theatricality had him worried.

Two years was a long time for very little fanfare. Jason had barely heard of them through the grapevine and Thomas was saying they had been around for a while? Nothing was adding up.

He needed more information.

“Two years, Tommy.” Jason hummed. “Two years they’ve been operating in Gotham, flying under the radar. Small gangs like that normally last three…maybe four months before they get snuffed out. If they’re lucky, they might even be initiated into one of the bigger gangs. But these bastards, _after two years_ , are still alive and still running small operations, which means…”

“They’re planning something big.” Thomas finished, mouth agape. “Holy shit, this changes everything.”

“Do not engage them, Tommy,” Jason urges, “whatever happens, you promise me, _you_ _fucking promise me_ , you do not engage. Until I figure out what to do, mouth shut, head down –”

“Ears open.” Thomas parroted. “I know.”

The unwritten code of street kids. One they learnt through baptism of fire. Jason huffed in amusement, “good” he says as he stands up, ruffling the kid’s hair.

Thomas followed suit, with a twisted frown on his forehead, “Do ya have a brother?” He blurted.

Jason stilled. Black hair, blue eyes flashed in his vision. “What makes you say that?”

“That rich white boy, Drake” Thomas explained, “he came looking for ya one time. Deep into our territory, presenting himself like fresh meat.”

Jason paled. The fuck was Tim doing in civilian clothes in the middle of Crime Alley?

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing,” Thomas said instantly, “I swear.” A defensive instinct to lessen the beatings.

Jason cringes slightly, it was an instinct born on the streets. Sometimes within the confines of your very own homes. People like Jason, kids like Thomas, they expected pain. Jason looked at him with a raised eyebrow and a cheeky grin. He kept the silence a bit longer, waiting Thomas out. As time passed, he had won.

“I was about to tell him the same thing I told you,” Thomas looks downwards. Jason knows that look intimately, it was the same look he had when he first lived in the Manor and had to confess about Alfred’s broken Chinas, “about the new gangs, but the Bat turned up. I realised that the punk’s a snitch and bolted. But if he ever rocks up here again, I’ve got a knife with his name on it.”

Jason would have laughed if he could. But he doesn’t like the unsettling feeling in his guts about Tim. No gear, no plan, no backup. This was not the Tim he knew.

Out of the entire family… _brood_ , only he could walk through Crime Alley without much fuss, because he knew where to go, who to talk to, where to avoid. This haphazardly concocted plan, it sounded too desperate.

It was a disaster waiting to happen, and he’s a little mad Bruce didn’t get there sooner.

In his brooding, it doesn’t take a genius to know that he never answered the question.

A sigh, “Gotta, admit, it’s weird seeing you like this…” Thomas eyes him, like his secrets are laid out in the open, for the whole world to see.

“Like what?”

Thomas pucks his lips as he cocks his head to the side. “Vulnerable.”

Jason couldn’t think of anything to say. It’s true. He didn’t like it, this openness, this weakness he wanted shut, locked and stored away. He didn’t like having his heart displayed out in the open, ready to be stabbed.

But it was this openness that he had found a family, found love with Artemis. He was never going back.

“You know they’ll come, right?” Thomas asked. “You’re kickin’ the hornet’s nest, rustlin’ some feathers. The Supes won’t let that go quietly.”

“I know,” Jason nods, “but it’s them or me.”

_Them or me._

“The age of heroes is dead, Tommy, ” the city lights seem distant, the world meaningless around them, “now there are only kings and conquerors.”

“Which one are you?”

Jason smiles. The gleam in his eyes shine. A calculating smile. “I’m a goddamn Outlaw.”

There’s a moment, where Thomas watches him, sees the confidence, the bravado. A man with a mission. With a nod, he walks away.

As Thomas leaves in the dead of the night, a vine grows by Jason’s side. It flicks back and forth, like it’s smelling him. Or rather, it’s smelling the residual pheromones of Harley Quinn. “Puerto Rico,” he said.

The trees bloom a vivid green, the grass rolls in a wave. Jason smiled; his ever-growing arsenal had another powerful pawn.

Silence seeps through his surroundings. The waves crashed against the brickwork as he sat there, thinking.

Biz was minding his own business, picking strands of grass from the ground and watching them float away with the night wind. Jason just hopes Ivy doesn’t care about every individual blade of grass.

“B.” His Kryptonian friend turned to him. Handing him a piece of paper, Jason instructed. “There’s something I need to do, by myself.” Biz looked affronted, worried, agitated and Jason worked quick to calm him down. “I’ll be fine, B. But you still need some rest.”

“But Batman bad. He hurt you.”

Something swoons in Jason’s chest. It’s warm, he realises, warm and powerful. _‘Don’t make this worse. He’s still weak’._ Jason swallows the lump in his throat, “He did, and he will if he catches me.”

“Then Red him need Bizarro.”

_‘Don’t do this, B. Don’t do this.’_

“I do, buddy, I do. But not now,” Jason places a gentle hand on his friend. God, he’s tall, Jason had to look up to meet his eyes. “When we go and save Arty, then you’ll have my back. But not now, not with this. This is something I _need_ to do, for me, alone. You understand, right?” Biz looked conflicted. “And I…I can’t protect you. Not like this.”

“Bizarro can protect Biz –”

“I can’t lose you!” Jason shouted. Biz faltered, stepping back, seeing the sheer fear and desperation in Jason’s eyes. “I can’t lose you again, B. Not again.”

B settles, he’s not convinced, Jason can tell. He’s hurt, maybe even betrayed, and Jason hates himself because of it.

He pushes the emotions down.

“This,” poking the peace of paper, “is the location of a safehouse. Far from here. Fly over to this destination, there’s food, and water, and Pup-Pup waiting for you.” Biz’s eyes light up. “Follow the coastline, use the trees to your advantage and don’t fly over 300 feet. Got that?”

Biz nodded. “Me understand, Red him.”

Jason didn’t want him to leave, didn’t want him to be alone, but it needed to be done. Jason needed to know he was safe.

“I’ll be with you soon.” The two share a tender hug before Bizarro flew away, careful not to break the sound barrier.

And once again, Jason’s alone.

Sometimes it was better this way.

He moves Southwest, back into the city. His legs taking him past a few blocks before he realised, he hadn’t switched his EMP camouflage back on.

For what was about to happen, he decided against it.

He found himself in front of a mom and pop diner. One of those cheesy old-fashioned American ones with black and white tiles and red leather seats. It sits just by the border of the Bowery, underneath the train tracks.

As if on cue, the deep chugging sound of pistons could be heard rumbling above before the 4 o’clock train came hurtling pass. Blisteringly loud, and Jason wonders how people sleep with the racket. But then again, he’s slept on the stone, cold streets, listening to the sounds of gunfire at night.

He walks in.

The waitress greets him, as does the chef by the order window. He waves back with a tight smile and weary air.

But his heart stops, looking at the back of someone’s head, sitting by the corner booth. Her hair, though aged grey, was neatly tied into a basic braid.

She swivels around, and their eyes meet.

Maybe he shouldn’t have come.

For some reason, his legs didn’t listen, and he found himself sitting down, opposite of her, facing the entry points. He realises she let him sit there, for his ease.

Once upon a time, he would have killed her. Once upon a time, he would have taken a bullet for her. Now, he’s not too sure where he stood.

_'When did she become so old?’_ The thought flashes across his mind. Grey hairs on the verge of white, sickly thin hands, her veins sticking to bone. It sends a jolt at his heart, wondering the accursed; _what if?_

Could they have had a good life? A happy life? The things she could have taught him, the little playful secrets only the two of them knew.

Or would he be turned into a criminal? The next heir to her kingdom? Although, he guesses there wasn’t any point now. As far as he or every cape around were concerned, he was a criminal.

Neither of them says ‘hello’.

The thick, viscous tension chokes them in silence. Jason doesn’t know where to look.

The waitress comes by, pouring them both a cup of coffee, black as night, no sugar. He didn’t have the courage to say thanks, so he tilts his head instead.

He rubs his hands, pushing the kinks out of his knuckles. But the unearthly silence eats away. He huffs, putting his hands underneath the table, but it forces him to look back at her. She hadn’t looked up, yet.

He puts his hands back.

“Why did you leave me?” He blurts.

It was out. He couldn’t retract his words, couldn’t reach out and pull back his agitation. Her ears twitch, and he prepares himself. Jason almost choked on thick air as she lifts her head, eyes glassy, pained.

He wasn’t used to seeing pain on her face. She was strong, powerful, a domineering figure. She was a cold and ruthless crime lord, human trafficker, not the aged grandma in front of him.

Faye looks dead ahead, face stiff and tight, her eyes flickering, uncertain and Jason feels like he’s seen that before, back when he was just another street kid after being dropped off by Batman on her doorstep.

Blue eyes wavering, a lingering doubt that she has held in her heart far longer than since he was born. Back then, she shut herself off, cold, emotionless… _distant._ A stranger meeting another. That’s what he thought they were. But all this time, she had been right there, two steps to his side and he wonders; _‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you love me?’_ Sitting with her, uncertainty wrapped around her wrinkled body, never leaving, never letting go.

Finally, “I don’t know.”

Jason didn’t know if he expected anything different. He didn’t know either.

Faye began to speak, “I knew who you were the moment you walked up to my front door almost a decade ago. The second time around, I figured I’ve done enough. You didn’t need that knowledge. You were in so much pain, had lost so much and I guess…I guess you could say I was scared.”

“Then why now?” He urged. “We had something. We were getting close. I actually liked being around you.”

It earns him a broken smile. She’s grateful, he realises, to hear him say he enjoyed her company. To admit, even after everything, for a brief period of time, he was happy with her.

“You died, Jason.”

The world shook.

“I found out when I was in prison. Reading some book I’ve long forgotten,” she looked so old, so worn down and broken. “You came back home in a casket and for nearly a decade, I had to live with that.”

Jason’s heart was in his throat, unwilling to move.

“I know I’m not a good person. I know I failed in every sense of the word ‘grandmother’, but you died, and I didn’t. No grandparent should ever live longer than their grandchild. There were days I wished I was incarcerated in Arkham instead of Gotham State Penitentiary…” She said solemnly, tears threatening to fall.

“How I dreamed it was me that got to put the Joker where he put you. I thought about it every waking moment how he would beg for my forgiveness, but he couldn’t, not with my hands around his throat. And when the life in his eyes disappear, when he’s drawn his last breath, I would bash his brains out, until it was nothing more than broken bones and white muscle.”

_‘Stop lying to me. Stop lying to me.’_

“At the end of the day, I guess I’m selfish.” She concedes, offering a crooked smile. “I want…I couldn’t keep living like this. I wanted to see my grandson."

“And I know how that sounds. Forcing this secret out in the open, stumbling into your life like you don’t have a say. And you have every right to hate me. I would be angry, too.”

_Anger._

It wasn’t even close to what he felt. An unbridled, seething fury burned him. It happened on the same night everything crashed into hell.

Two years ago, Faye had invited him out to dinner. A soft, quaint spot by the Sprang River. It was a French restaurant, he remembered, overlooking the water. He remembers laughter, familiarity. He had the pan-seared salmon and she had braised oxtail.

He remembers how she didn’t take a bite.

He had been so angry when she told him, like his world, his entire life was one big, disgusting lie. For a bleak moment, he wanted to stab his dinner knife into her throat.

But the explosions stopped him before he could.

He bolted the moment it happened, wanting… _needing_ something to hit.

He never got to hear the end of the story, until today.

“Dad said I was named after my grandfather…” his curiosity got the best of him. “Is it true?”

“Jason Todd the second,” She nodded, the wistful look in her eyes looked peaceful, a look of better times, “he was…he was a good man, far better than I deserved. You have his eyes by the way, same maddening stubbornness, as well.” She chuckled. “In many ways, even if you never knew him, you grew up becoming the same man. Big, strong, kind, forgiving… _oh_ , was he forgiving soul. A good man.

“We lived, we loved, we lost touch. Somewhere in our tryst Willis was born…” She stopped and Jason was shocked at the look on her face.

Regret.

A pained smile graced her lips. “Let’s just say you weren’t the only family I failed.”

“Both of us?”

She nodded. “We went our separate ways, he wanted nothing to do with me and I…I was too busy running on my empire.” She shook her head ruefully. “I don’t even remember what our fights were about. My lack of guidance as a parent? Maybe. My greed and hubris wanting to play god? Most definitely. And for what? A grandchild that never knew I existed and a dead son.”

Jason brokenly laughed, “Our family is just filled with fuck-ups.”

She smirked and Jason felt a sense of familiarity jolt through his heart. “I suppose we are.”

The silence hangs. The early morning patrons walk through the doors.

“I’m glad you’re alive.” She faintly whispers.

His heart thunderclaps.

Throat tight, he cracks. “Only one other person has ever said that to me.”

“That’s…a pity.”

_“Don’t lie to me. Don’t give me that hope.”_ He doesn’t say it, but it kills him not to.

“I didn’t want to come back… _alive_ , I mean,” he feels weird, saying this out loud. Living with these thoughts, they claw at you, makes you feel weak, defenceless, and all Jason had was spite to fight back with. “When you’re dead, nothing matters anymore. Safe, free… _happy._ Like nothing could touch me, because I knew nothing could.”

Faye doesn’t say a word, listening intently with her heart in a vice, knowing that she could have done something all those years ago.

“I would use to go to sleep with a gun underneath my pillow. A gun and a bullet, in case I ever wanted to end it all. Restart from scratch. Maybe I’ll come back less deranged.” He joked, and instinctively curled inwards from the glare he received.

Faye sighs deeply, loosening the grip on her arms. He knows that look. He’s seen it enough times in the mirror.

“I have many sins to atone for, and I don’t expect you to forgive me, god knows if I was in your position I certainly wouldn’t. But I’m done letting this wound fester and rot away inside me, knowing that you needed me, and I wasn’t there for you.

“God,” she cried, “I’m so sorry, my boy.”

He tries to hold it in, to keep his appearance intact. He chokes on his own tears, eyes lined a dark red. Why does healing have to hurt?

The waitress walks past, a mug of fresh brewed coffee in hand. One look at their table and she decided against it.

A few moments pass, scrunched napkins wet with tears line the table.

Jason had lost track of time how long they had been there.

The air was heavy, time felt slow. Eventually, Faye diverges.

“There’s been an increase in goody-two shoes flying around Gotham, no doubt searching for you.” Ma discretely says. “I’ve still got some contacts back from my day. Documents, cash, transport. All within the hour.”

Jason shakes his head. “Thanks, but I’ve still got business to do here.”

She sighed, the wrinkles underneath her eyes deepening with age. “This is not wise, Jason. You have just become the most wanted man since Bin Laden. There is no light at the end of this tunnel, no hole you can hide in. The world is a sad and miserable place and it does not care about your feelings. It will rain fire from the skies just to watch you burn.”

Jason knew that. He was starting a fire, challenging the very institution he once served. The Red Hood had served his purpose, Red Ronin will plant the seeds for something different.

“– they will bring up your past and condemn you for it.”

Jason understood that she cared, trying to protect his future, but so was he. “This is not a story of ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf’. I did what needed to be done. This here, now, is the story of how the boy ripped the wolf’s fucking head off and stuck it on a pike.”

Faye sighed, her fist loosening into an open palm. “Stubborn little brat,” he smiles at that. A familiar smile. “I’m in your corner. You may not want me to, might not need me to either, but I’m here. When push comes to shove, I’m here.”

Jason couldn’t meet here eyes.

With a passing moment, she leaves him to his own thoughts. The night had unravelled some scars both of them had tried to forget. They don’t hug or hold each other’s hands or even say a polite goodbye.

Faye leaves him in that small diner, giving him the one thing Jason has been denied since the very day he was born.

A choice.

And for the first time in a long time, he has no idea what to do.

There’s anger, resentment, ugly pride, but there is also hope and optimism, the very things he fought for every day.

And if he couldn’t believe in hope, then why was he fighting in the first place?

Jason peers out the window, high above he spots two shadowy figures hop from one rooftop to another. One was purple, the other was tall and feminine, her hair shined like amber in the moonlight.

They move fast, agile and free, almost like a dance as they flowed from one point to another. Parkour was more than just a tool, it was a way of life. Spoiler and Batgirl race out of sight, further out the city back to the safety of the cave as dawn breaks, as he sits there wondering about the life he’s lived and the life he wants.

He was once one of them.

Flying, being free.

The world that hurts him looks so small when he’s up there, limitless and untouchable. Everything looked so beautiful up high; the rainbow of lights, the elegant chaos of its inhabitants, the uproarious harmony of it all.

Up there, he was free.

But that was the child inside of him speaking, the child that wanted to escape his problems and just be something else, just for a few hours a night, living for those rare moments that made him feel _alive._

Jason isn’t a child anymore – maybe he never was – but he’s done escaping his problems, he’s done screaming at the world. One step at a time, one bad memory at each turn, he’s taking it all back. He’ll take the pain and he’ll finish it, like he should have all those years ago.

_That_ is his choice.

The bell above the diner door chimes at the arrival of another day’s worth of patrons and Jason hails down the waitress, asking for another cup of coffee and pile of buttermilk pancakes.

A new day, he figures.

The old beat-up radio hums ‘80s morning tunes. Bright sounds shadowed by the sizzle of his pancakes and just for one measly moment, life was simple.

Simple food. Simple day. Simple interactions.

But life never stops turning for anyone.

“Good morning, Jason.” A figure slides into the side across from him.

Jason chuckles with a razors edge, shaking his head playfully at the man wearing a dark brown raincoat and a broad rim hat that had interrupted his breakfast.

“Morning, J’onn.”


End file.
